The Chester Records picks of the week - the contrasting qualities of Christmas albums and Guitar Evangelists (John Zorn/The Dreamers and Blind Willie Johnson)

Saft, Wollesen, Dunn, Baron, Ribot, Bapista and Zorn live at the Festival International Musique Actuelle Victoriaville May 15 2008

words here

by Robert Crumb

Funky Downtown experimentation and Old Time Appalachian Style - The Chester Records Picks of the Week

Stuff on Floored by Four (Cline, Bowne, Watt, Honda) and The Carter Family (Maybelle, AP, Sara) here



The Week in Listening 2/2 - 2/8

2/2/09- Souled American- Flubber CD 1989
Stump- A Fierce Pancake CD 1988

2/3/09- Borah Bergman Trio- Luminescence CD 2009
Bengali Bauls- At Big Pink LP 1969

2/4/09- Otis Redding- The Otis Redding Story 3CD

2/5/09- The Cramps- All Tore Up (Ohio Demos 1979) Boot
The Cramps- Songs the Lord Taught Us LP 1980
The Cramps- Drug Train 12” LP 1984
The Cramps- The Crusher 12” LP 1984
Various Artists- Songs the Cramps Taught Us CD

2/6/09- New Klezmer Trio- Melt Zonk Rewire CD 1995
Crystal Stilts- Alight of Night CD 2008
Beau Brummels- Bradley’s Barn LP 1968
Bunky & Jake- L.A.M.F. LP 1969
Nels Cline Wally Shoup Chris Corsano- Immolation Immersion CD 2005

2/7/09- Individuals- Fields/Aquamarine CD
Richard Grossman- Where the Sky Ended CD 2000

2/8/09- Individuals- Fields/Aquamarine CD

Photo by William Eggleston, idea stolen from the Silver Jews.

MONDAY 2/2- There is such an immediate warmth running through Souled American’s Flubber, and along with the power gained through assurance and the album’s graceful but small gestures it all builds up to a grand statement. Occasionally flourishes of instrumental brilliance will rise up from the stream of solid soul-mining, but largely this is a low-key affair that will gain its appreciative fans through familiarity and the durability of the music. It’s one of those records that gets “stuck” in the tape deck (I use that piece of playback machinery due to it’s contemporaneousness to Flubber’s release date, when car CD players were still largely a luxury) with the songs’ impact slowly increasing as the melodies and sharp playing ripen, and (of course) whenever friends hear it they either shrug their shoulders or ask for something else. But YOU know. Because that drive across town that normally feels like nothing took on an odd appeal as the car’s cheap speakers resonated in the vehicle’s interior and the bright sun of the cool autumn afternoon felt brighter and invigorating, making the ever mounting pile-up of personal problems somehow feel less taxing and insurmountable. Flubber is loaded with great moments, many of them anchored by the huge and expressive acoustic bass of Joe Adducci. There are noticeable strides between this record and the debut Fe, with several songs being deceptively unusual in their construction. The tandem vocals of Adducci and guitarist Chris Grigoroff attain a sweet stride on this one and it all stacks up to a beautiful sum. File under Alt-Country (No Affectation).





Stump was briefly a big deal in the late ‘80s before flaming out as bands are wont to do. Deeply entrenched in their sound was a quirk/eccentricity factor that made people stand up and take notice, and they eschewed any traces of guitar heaviness in favor of a malleable, at times even elastic bass-heavy song structure that worked well with Mick Lynch’s unusual but attractive vocal style. They had a few MTV “hits” and became a fleeting sensation with the stations po-mo contingent, but sadly the initial hoopla didn’t translate into longevity. They were quite an interesting group for the profile they achieved, not sounding like much else that was happening at the time, and the lack of reference points led some to describe the band as Beefheartian. They don’t really sound like the Captain, lacking any of the blues base that various Magic Band’s subverted and sometimes pounded into submission. Stump instead seemed intent on undoing pop structures and aligning themselves with an art-spazz sensibility that was unique from Beefheart’s zonked hippie aesthetic. A Fierce Pancake actually feels closer to something Ralph Records might have released for pop chart consideration, as unlikely as that might seem. The album has a proud production veneer (I resist using the term polish) that really sits at odds with most of what was happening on an indie level in the States during its period, so I guess it’s no surprise that this didn’t catch on with that crowd. It has over time built up a deserved cult status that resulted in a 3-CD collection of the band’s discography. This is something, at least. In a better world “Charlton Heston” would have been a big hit and Pancake would’ve kick-started some heavy fireworks instead of serving as the underappreciated final document from a wonderful group of seriously unserious oddballs.

TUESDAY 2/3- The Bengali Bauls LP hasn’t been reissued to my knowledge, which is strange considering the big time connections it has. Recorded by The Band’s Garth Hudson at the titular location of what’s probably that group’s best record, it’s also quite noteworthy that two of the Bauls are found in the cover photo of Dylan’s excellent John Wesley Harding album. So it would seem that this cool slab of druggy Indian jamming would be a prime candidate for some label’s licensing department. But it hasn’t, so if you’re interested, happy hunting. Released on Buddha Records right at the end of its decade, the disc is a fine addition to the discography of a wide open era. So much stuff was on the shelves at the time that it’s not surprising this didn’t make a bigger splash. Plus the music lacks any overt rock elements that many people to this day seem to require. But Big Pink’s lack of retrospective stature is more than a bit quizzical. It’s a fine listen, full of prime smoky drifting, and it would’ve been a stone(d) treat to be seated on the floor, cross-legged and heavy-lidded, while this baby was recorded. I’d love to “score” an LP copy of this because here’s a perfect case where the download experience just isn’t the same. There NEEDS to be a record sleeve on the mantle when this one plays. Lie back on a big-assed pillow, inhale deeply and enjoy. Shit. Gotta turn the record over.

Mr. Pitiful

WEDNESDAY 2/4- Otis Redding is well served by assorted reissues, but I can’t think of a better one than the 3-disc set above, which chronologically presents twenty songs per disc in the too short career of one of the greatest artists/showmen that R&B/soul music ever had. Redding possessed a striking ability to work with his bands and stir up a massive series of both rousing party belters and slow grooves through a wounded psyche. He could filter a touch of uptown blues into his cagey country thrust, or extend the gorgeous template of Sam Cooke. He could riff on and vamp up chart material from invading Britons, and could tangle in a good-natured snap contest with Carla Thomas. He could simultaneously pay homage to and challenge one of his strongest peers by simply nailing “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag”. He could send crowds of Brit mods and rockers into a wigged-out frenzy and captivate the “love crowd” at Monterey. The guy appeared to be in complete control of his creative impulses. He could elevate average material to the realm of classic, knew exactly how to navigate chancier terrain and make it sound timeless, and seemed to have a nearly faultless ability to know what boundaries to push and what wouldn’t work. Redding was certainly versatile, but his artistic personality never lost focus. He always sounded like Otis Redding. His bands were often the star of the show, particularly live (some of the live tapes just BURN with soul grease), and his generous relationship with the musicians who played with him seemed to add a spark to the proceedings and also helped promote racial goodwill, since one of the most inspiring extra-musical aspects of the Stax/Volt story involves how it was an integrated scene, where black and white denizens of Memphis came together to create brilliant, lasting art. And all of the above was just fucking NATURAL. What’s amazing is the utter lack of self-consciousness, while also appearing in no way naïve. It’s clear whenever I play this collection that Redding’s work is one of 20th Century music’s great pleasures. I think this specific release is out of print, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find an inexpensive copy. Sure, the mastering is a bit crappy like most CDs from the ‘80s, but this stuff will always sound best spilling from one speaker on a battered transistor radio while baking in the summer sun and guzzling bug-juice from a mason jar. Who wants a sno-cone?

And this was an off-night.

THURSDAY 2/5- Lux Interior has checked out of this astral plane, and his status as the original roots-punk trash culture maniac-as-deity is eternally secure. Along with his wildly coiffed mate Poison Ivy and a revolving door of third (and occasionally fourth) members, including such worthy characters as ex-Electric Eel Nick Knox and ex-Gun Clubber Kid Congo Powers, Lux basically invented the raw and simple punk tinged celebration of youth junk ephemera that included everything from hot rod worship, dinkus surf instrumentals, cheesecake mags, wildly harroomphing horn-laden R&B singles, z-grade horror movies, hopped-up hillbillies going bonkers, forgotten dance craze non-hits, and assorted other societal fragments that for many are still little more than kitschy detritus.
Since its 2009, it’s maybe possible that a well adjusted, right minded person might not be familiar with The Cramps. If this is the case, can I suggest checking out at least one of the Songs The Cramps Taught Us compilations discs? All three of these highly educational volumes are just stuffed to the latex gills with the source of Lux and Company’s lovely mayhem. And the compilers make a couple of judicious decisions in the programming: instead of grouping the songs by genre or roughly similar styles they choose to just splatter the contents haphazardly onto the discs and therefore present the sounds as some mythical lower-class nogoodnik might’ve actually heard them. In addition, there is a smattering of names that will actually resonate with the culture at large. Link Wray, The Sonics, Bo Diddley, The Trashmen and Andre Williams are all included on the first installment, and they sit like ringers in a mass of lesser known obscurities. As it plays it forms a mind-flaying soundtrack to wildly nowhere forms of youthful suburbanite obsession that flourished in the prosperity of the ‘50s and didn’t really stall out until rock music (the main locus of the generation gap during this period) truly assimilated into the culture at large. Sitting in a clubhouse leafing through beat-to-shit copies of Mad Magazine and Famous Monsters of Filmland and listening to a jive-talking pill addicted disc jockey spin whatever he damn well pleased with a temporary freedom that everyone that was really receiving it took for granted. There’s a car show in the dollar store parking lot Saturday. I heard a band’s going to play…..Who?......I dunno who, but Crazy Carlton is going to be there too, giving away stuff…..Hey, we can go to see Eegah afterwards, I saw that poster in front of the theatre…...You guys know Bettie Page?.....Yeah, man who doesn’t…..My brother has some postcards of her under his mattress…..And the clubhouse is suddenly, eerily vacant in a manner that would make Rod Serling almost crack a smile.
One of the most attractive elements of The Cramps was their blunt refusal to change their sound over the years. They did flirt around with bass and bigger, more pro production, but the essential message of Lux and Ivy remained constant until the very end. This means that pretty much everybody that’s into them will have a quite personal cutting off point in relation to the band’s discography. How much of a good thing do you want? How many bootlegs do you own? I personally run up to A Date with Elvis, but there’s certainly no defined reason why I haven’t bought into the records released since, other than shelf space and a mild non-judgmental feeling that their oomph had codified somewhat. But that’s a contradictory assessment, isn’t it? The Cramps were always about code. They dumped any aims toward originality into their visual/live presentation, and let the record’s serve as wonderfully bent party din that was also a conduit to how kids survived before The Man stole their music (not really rescued back briefly until punk rock bubbled up, with The Cramps securing themselves on the fringes of that scene). Anybody who denies that Lux and Ivy were shrewd calculators under the surface of their reckless abandon is either not getting it (hard to imagine) or they’re just being contrary. They were the band equivalent to record labels like Crypt and Norton, teaching as they gave stuffed clubs countless nights to remember. I feel like a dumbass for not ever paying to see them throw down. You don’t know what you got ‘till it’s gone. Thanks, Lux.

FRIDAY 2/6- The new in New Klezmer Trio is no general descriptor. The music found on Melt Zonk Rewire, which is the middle disc in a three release discography and the only CD that I’ve heard by this group, is quite strident in its groundbreaking. They make this clear immediately by reworking a traditional piece into a serious hunk of avant roots-plumbing that’s quite blunt in its appreciative nods toward rock progressions. Then they shift gears and examine the source of their inspiration on original compositions that start from a more tangibly trad base. I wouldn’t recommend this disc as a gift idea for that classic klezmer loving uncle. The focus here is squarely on grabbing avant-garde music fans that are open to the finely woven fabric of the past instead of sating those who are specifically spoken to by the undying beauty of the diverse threads of said fabric. But don’t think for an instant that these guys are in any way disrespectful of their muse. Unlike some releases from the avant-garde and a few on Tzadik (who released this), there isn’t a trace of the will to provoke. Instead it is drenched in a desire to keep this amazing style vital and moving toward the future. Ben Goldberg’s clarinet playing is tough but spry, and his bass clarinet is certainly raw but with the necessary ability to constantly express ideas emotionally (artistically) instead of just huffing and puffing. This is a group loaded with chops. Dan Seamans’ bass and Kenny Wollesen’s drums are continuously climbing around the tunes while also propelling them forward. Rewire is a beautiful work and I’m anticipating becoming acquainted with the other two records by the trio.






The Beau Brummells are best remembered for a two hit combo of Brit Invasion inspired pop-rock that still stands rather tall to this day: “Laugh Laugh” and “Cry Just a Little”. In a somewhat similar vein to The Turtles, but with more Everly Brothers influence, the band’s early stuff remains solid listening and is a great example of how chart inclined US bands were adapting the non-blues based UK sound to their own ends. Triangle was a departure into conceptual territory, though folkier and less psyche than many similar efforts, and therefore less dated. But Bradley’s Barn is a whole different kettle of trout. By this point the group was down to two original members, and Reprise sugar daddy Lenny Waronker took them to Nashville to record with producer Owen Bradley and a bunch of smoking session musicians (including the late Jerry Reed), with the results being one of the best slabs of country-rock I’ve ever heard. Situations like this one often find the playing surpassing the songwriting, but that’s not the case here. The original tunes are choice from top to bottom, with “An Added Attraction (Come and See Me)” being my favorite of the bunch: it actually reminds me a bit of the deep melancholia of the following year’s brilliant Oar LP by ex-Moby Grape Skip Spence, though it lacks the edgy stress of that record and instead feels wise and in control. The entirety of this baby is a pill sweet and wonderful, capped off with the record’s solitary cover, Randy Newman’s “Bless You California”. If you need another Nashville Skyline in your life then pucker up to this one.





SATURDAY 2/7- The late Richard Grossman is maybe the most underappreciated jazz pianist of the last thirty years. Playing free jazz in earnest is a sure fire path to neglect and occasional scorn, and Grossman’s non-prolific discography and his residences away from free-music friendly media centers surely added to the fact that almost nobody but the jazz obsessed know him, and even then it’s a coin flip. The West Coast’s free scene has always been small, including a batch of major names (Sonny Simmons, Smiley Winters, Horace Tapscott, John Carter, Bobby Bradford, Barbara Donald, James Zitro and the later Nine Winds Records group led by Vinnie Golia that Grossman was a part of) but never fostering enough closely knit activity to build momentum and help many of the musicians associated with it become more than just personalities recognizable to partisans of the movement. This is where Grossman spent most of his recording career, but a large portion of his playing life was based in Philadelphia, where he played post-bop in a scene that found him crossing paths with names such as Lee Morgan and Jimmy Garrison. Seduction by Ornette found him moving away from the accepted post-bop forms, and his move to California gave him the opportunity to record his work. This 2000 CD on the Hat Hut label reissues a very obscure 1994 release that hit the stores roughly two years after his death from lung cancer. It’s a challenging beauty. Made up of trio pieces featuring percussionist Alex Cline (bro of Nels if you’re wondering) and bassist Ken Filiano, the music starts at a very spacious and considered pace, reflecting Grossman’s interest in modern classical composition. Slowly the pieces move into a more established avant-jazz territory, with the piano rubbing up against Taylor-esque sounds (while never losing the vital thrust that makes this music Grossman’s own) and the trio conjuring an energetic back and forth that should appeal to anybody with an interest in small group free interplay. This is my first taste of the man’s music and it should be obvious that I’m still basically unsure of how to do him justice beyond stacking up his bio and then slobbering some unexceptional praise all over it. That’s okay, because I’m going to continue listening, and as the music gets under my skin and grows so that I can start to get a really worthwhile handle on it, I’ll return to the keyboard (as he so often did to his) and retool and expand upon the ideas touched on in this paragraph so that I can actually do the man some justice. It seems the least I can do.


SUNDAY 2/8- I remember buying Individuals’ Aquamarine LP used back in ’88 or so on a tip that I’d dig it and being nonplussed. I traded it back in on my next visit to the store. At the time the band’s guitar-pop sound was far too clean and sophisto for me. I basically shelved them in my memory as a New Jersey band with an ironically collegiate sensibility that didn’t appeal to me. Well, revisiting some of these previously dismissed groups has proved to be interesting. Individuals can still seem a bit forced at times, and at others moments appear intent on making covertly dancey music for bookworms (I can just picture a tightly packed club of lit-majors totally forgetting themselves and flailing into a frenzy as a DJ spins “My Three Sons”), but I can’t deny that this stuff goes down better with me now than it did back then. Individuals will never be my favorite Jersey band, but damn if the guitar in “Walk by Your House” didn’t make me smile. This disc is basically a complete discography, and while I don’t consider it essential listening, there are some moments in the mannerisms.

Individuals, don'tcha know....

The Week in Listening 12/22 - 12/28

12/22/08- The 6ths- Wasp’s Nests CD 1995
Luna- Slide CDEP 1993

12/23/08- Steve Lacy- One Fell Swoop CD 1986

12/24/08- Steve Lacy- One Fell Swoop CD 1986
Galaxie 500- On Fire CD 1989

12/25/08- Yosuke Yamashita Trio- Chiasma 1976
Annie Gosfield- Burnt Ivory and Loose Wires CD 1998

12/26/08- Annie Gosfield- Burnt Ivory and Loose Wires CD 1998
Family Underground- Ancient Shadows LP 2005
Swell Maps- Let’s Build a Car b/w Big Maz in the Country/…Then Poland 7” 1979
The Who- BBC Sessions CD
The Jim Hall Trio- Jazz Guitar LP 1957

12/27/08- The Feelies- Crazy Rhythms LP 1980
Jimmy Giuffre- Free Fall LP 1962
Bardo Pond- Set and Setting CD 1999

12/28/08- David Candy- Play Power CD 2001
Mark Dresser- Banquet CD 1997
Tony William’s Lifetime- Turn it Over LP 1970
Miles Davis- The Complete Live at the Plugged Nickel Disc One 1965

MONDAY 12/22- Stephen Merritt’s ability at pop song craft is well documented in the work of Magnetic Fields. The 6ths was his revolving indie-celebrity vocalist project, and it’s nice to see that it retains all of its charm as it makes inroads into its second decade of existence. The album’s success rests squarely on the writing of Merritt (who sings one track himself), but the main attraction is hearing a varied cast of emoting throats tackling the work. As should be expected, there is much savvy moping, as well as heartbreak, bitterness, defiance, and even some enthusiasm for passions well remembered. Every damn tune here has that incredibly wise use of ‘80s tech-pop plasticity that largely dominated his stuff during this period, and the songs are structured like standards from some alternate, infinitely better universe. Wasp’s Nests comes on like a modest exercise in mutual admiration, but leaves a lingering impression of expressive achievement. It’s obvious that much thought went into the finished collection, yet there is nary a whiff of self-importance or, for that matter self-promotion. There are too many great turns from the array of vocalists to list them all, so I won’t. My personal high point would be Mark Robinson of Unrest on a tune that would possibly be the greatest karaoke song ever, if only more people knew about it. Stephen Merritt’s career apex is probably the 3-disc 69 Love Songs behemoth, with The Charm of the Highway Strip not far underneath. For me, this falls just behind Charm in a photo finish for second place. It’s superb work all around.



Dean Wareham is a fantastic guitar player and also a distinctive, effective vocalist (he’s one of the singers on Wasp’s Nests). The best evidence in support of his guitar playing remains his work in Galaxie 500. The music of Luna often reigns in his ability on the instrument in favor of sweetly accessible, sometimes strummy, and always smart pop sensibility, and this is cool. There are post-Galaxie exceptions, though, and the Slide EP is one of them. This is a covers heavy addendum to the band’s debut record Lunapark, and it’s probably my favorite thing from them. The twin high points are the soaring string expansion of Beat Happening’s stone classic “Indian Summer”, and a sublimely reverent run through of The Velvet’s “Ride into the Sun”. But the stomping reading of The Dream Syndicate’s “That’s What You Always Say” isn’t far behind. Nor are the three originals for that matter. As Luna evolved, they sort of became a default party band for me, something that I could connect with that was also easy listening enough to not raise the hackles of others. And a nice beer-buzz makes them sound even better. Slide remains a different proposition however, mainly due to the grand lengths of Wareham’s guitar. If you’ve discovered Galaxie 500 through a love of Damon and Naomi, and haven’t dabbled in the work of this band, I’d say that this is the place to start.

TUESDAY 12/23- I’ve already posted elsewhere on this meager blog about the talents of Steve Lacy. The main subject of that entry was his first two recordings. One Fell Swoop dates from the period where his reputation as a jazz great was ensconced and he was releasing a high volume of diverse work. It features the familiar rhythm section of Jean-Jacques Avenel on bass and Oliver Johnson on drums, lacks the piano of Lacy regular Bobby Few and the vocals of his wife Irene Aebi, and adds free-sax great Charles Tyler. This is a relatively recent acquisition for me, but I’m comfortable enough with it to make a few minor observations. The first concerns the lack of piano. Lacy’s music is well suited to the instrument: in addition to Few, his extensive work with Mal Waldron is well documented. The decision to not include a pianist on the date isn’t explicitly detailed, but it seems likely to me that with the addition of a presence on reeds such as Tyler the piano was eschewed because it didn’t fit the specific conception that Lacy had for the recording date. I wouldn’t even mention this but for the sweet reading of Monk’s “Friday the Thirteenth”. The excellent liners by Lars-Olaf Gustavsson mention that the decision to record it was rather spontaneous, and this fact says a lot about Lacy’s thought processes in relation to his music and also how he approaches the work of Monk. There isn’t any doubt in my mind that Lacy values Monk’s unique and splendid technique on the instrument, but what's most important for him (it seems to me anyway) is how that technique, how the very instrument Monk played advanced the music to its finished form. And Lacy then examines that finished form and gets to what’s intrinsically great about it without being tied to Monk’s very individual playing style or to the piano period. He’s certainly not the only musician to do this, but when Lacy goes there it is with richness through his love of the music and his deep knowledge of what makes it vital. Plus his playing is just badass. And so is Tyler’s, for that matter. Anyone who has only heard Tyler climb into the outer-reaches of free-skronking (but always with skill and creative vigor) on records like Saga of the Outlaws may be surprised at how relatively restrained the man is here. This is not to infer that he’s anything other than gripping in his interaction with Lacy’s wonderfully abstract template. On the contrary, across the whole disc Tyler plays with assertiveness and warmth, particularly on baritone. One of his original tunes “Ode to Lady Day” is included for good measure. The rhythm players add much to the proceedings, Bob Thompson’s cover painting is outstanding (wish I had this one on LP), and the whole thing is just another small but essential aspect of the canvas that is the work of Steve Lacy.



WEDNESDAY 12/24- If I were forced to pick a favorite record by Galaxie 500 I’d certainly scream “FASCIST!” All three of the band’s full-lengths have so many fine moments of non-slavish Velvets appropriation, explosions of superb psyche guitar, appealingly weird but natural lyrical tangents, and an overall depth that’s loose and pretty and mildly surreal that settling on a personal fave is an exercise in futility. So I’m not going to do it. Nobody can force me, for I am a free man. Now, it’s true that when the trio of albums Galaxie spurted out to a largely indifferent public while they existed (the vast majority of the band’s current fans were probably still in short pants when Today came out) are punctuated with the inclusion of their EPs the evaluation of the works gets a bit muddier. The edition of On Fire that I currently own is from the lovingly assembled Rykodisc box set (now out of print) where the three B-side tracks from the Blue Thunder EP are tacked on, and while that fucks with the specific reality of On Fire’s original form, it really makes for an elevated listening experience. The band made tangible sonic progress with each release, the debut being the most obviously tied to things Velvety, the second mining concise and unique psychedelic ideas into the experience, and the third refining their sound and extending it with assurance and increased dynamic dexterity. The extra tracks on this edition of On Fire are specifically from the period of the second album, and having them included doesn’t feel in any way disruptive. Instead it exists like a lush and extended epilogue. The covers of George Harrison’s “Isn’t It a Pity”, The Red Crayola’s amazing “Victory Garden”, and Joy Division’s majestic “Ceremony” pepper a totality that’s easily one of the most expressive and lasting documents (and bands, natch) of its era. If you doubt me, just listen to the open track “Blue Thunder”. Its soaring transcendent melancholia still manages to kick my ass almost twenty years after it was first recorded. If I were politely asked to pick a favorite ERA (or period, or epoch) of this band, I’m rather confident that after some consideration I would declare this to be it. It’s pretty damn faultless in my estimation. And just think: it might’ve never happened without the drum set of Conan O’Brien. That’s enough to make me forgive him for Max Weinberg.


THURSDAY 12/25- The depths as heights of the free jazz experience really knows no bounds. Thinking that there is an end-point of summation in the genre will eventually be revealed as hubris. The level of abstraction really requires a commitment to deep listening which by extension means an investment in time, and on top of this there were a serious amount of recordings, many released in small quantities by neglected artists, so any kind of legit finality is almost impossible, particularly when considering that the style is still alive and kicking in many different forms. This unconquerable well of goodness is one aspect of free jazz’s appeal. Where the conservative approach to documenting the movement often paints it as an aberration, the reality is that it was a widespread and essential development that affected the music on a global level with a diversity of approaches. As evidence, here’s the Yosuke Yamashita Trio of Japan. I still know very little about this guy, but jeeper’s creepers, this baby really throws off some scorching sparks. There has been a small batch of alternate names for free jazz over the years, and I avoid using most of them for different reasons: the New Thing just doesn’t make sense in a way that’s more deeply ironic somehow than the term Avant-garde, Ecstatic jazz is frankly a bit dorky, and Energy Music (or Energy Jazz) is maybe just to obscure for personal comfort. But the last terminology was used, mostly in my experience around the iconoclastic and beautiful sound creation of Cecil Taylor, and here it seems like a nice reference point in lieu of more substantive thoughts on the band, because this stuff is just full throttle. Turn the volume up on this, and watch how quickly you can clear a house of unwanted guests. Yamashita’s piano abuse doesn’t really remind me of Taylor, but rather Dave Burrell when he was anchoring those monstrous large groups on the BYG/Actuel label (Burrell’s Echo seems like an acceptable kneejerk reference to what this baby sounds like), or maybe even the sweetly cacophonous sounds of Alexander Von Schlippenbach’s early Globe Unity groups. The rub is that this is just three guys. And I’ll add that it is more than just sonic terrorism. It is an endurance test to be sure, but it also always retains a tangible connection to creative expression. Maybe it’s a test for the band, to see how far out they can go while still communicating something lasting. Or maybe I’m just grasping. Whatever I’m doing, I can safely say that this record is a formidable beast. Tangling with it is a treat.



Annie Gosfield works in the vast terrain of experimental music. She has a batch of releases on John Zorn’s Tzadik label, and this is my first dip into her work. The sound on this disc moves around quite a bit, initially reminding me of non-dance oriented industrial music minus the sometimes aggressive qualities it pushed into, later it develops the plinkity-plonkity aura that I associate with some types of modern classical composition, and it ends in horn based territory that’s a bit like some unnamable corner of the Euro-improv scene. To be clear though, this recording has very little if anything to do with jazz. The Rova Saxophone Quartet does appear, but don’t let that appearance be deceiving. Gosfield uses a sampler to shape her work, and the way the whole is structured is really a different animal from improvisation. But it’s a fine animal and I look forward to getting to know it better. Hats off to Annie.

Annie Gosfield

FRIDAY 12/25- Family Underground is from Denmark, and they are all about the drone. They are also about some rumble, and a little bit of freak-out. I just stumbled onto them via the web, and I’m pleased that I did. This recording was a vinyl only affair on the Qbico label from Italy. It is way out of print I’m sure. This makes me want to check out more of their stuff. I’ll keep you

posted.
Swell Maps is often remembered in punk lore for “Read about Seymour”, and yeah, that’s an absolute classic of arty punk splatter, but the occasional gloss over of their subsequent work from within the punk context is inappropriate. To call the Maps punks is an inaccurate descriptor. They were really post-punk experimentalists whose earliest stuff just happened to drip with the defiant gush of punk energy. This marks them as distinct from a group like Alternative TV who clearly began as an excellent punk band and seemed to embrace a defiant plunge into experimentation in the face of what Mark Perry felt was rampant punk conformity. Swell Maps do have a core audience that knows of their greatness however, and in their own way they are as important to the development of post-punk as any of the other Rough Trade artists. "Let’s Build a Car" was their third single, and it still has plenty of punkish energy, but the true colors have risen to the surface. The other two tracks on the record effectively document what the true objective of this band really was: a ramshackle junkyard-ish approach that made them markedly different from any of their running mates, and presented the duality of assuring their place in the post-punk hall of fame while also, at least in my estimation, landing them in a position where they have lacked the kind of posthumous adulation that’s been given to The Raincoats, or The Pop Group, or even early PIL. Swell Maps have adamant partisans, just not as many. Sometimes the critical discourse on them leaves the aftertaste that they are more respected than loved. But I for one do love their sometimes twisted and regularly tweaked stew of brilliance, and hell, maybe the big slide of consensus on these guys just hasn’t happened yet.

I’ll face up to the fact that I can be a bit persnickety regarding certain rock bands from the ‘60s that have taken on the mantle of “classic”. And I’m that way in some respects RE: The Who. I don’t think Tommy is a good album. Sure, there are a few good songs (don’t ask me to name them right now), but it also has the atrocious “Pinball Wizard” and heaps of some of the worst conceptual straining that I’ve ever heard. I’ll save the manifesto over how Tommy was a prime example of the antithesis of what was really great about the rock and R & B that influenced this band and made them so interesting in the first place. Personally, I think Who’s Next is far superior to Tommy (and it seems that others share my opinion, so I don’t think I’m making any wild claims here), and that Quadrophenia largely succeeds where Tommy fails. My reason for going into this isn’t to be contrarian. No, really. Tommy’s “I’m Free” appears toward the end of BBC Sessions, and while that song is one of the least bothersome to me from its album, I must say that it’s nearly the low point of the CD in my estimation. “Long Live Rock” takes the cake as the flat out worst track (rather pungent), but everything else rises above the level of “I’m Free”, much of it by a country mile. Even the strummy grandstanding of “The Seeker”, a song I’ve often felt ambivalence over, is preferable to me. “Relay” is from Townshend’s Lifehouse project, and I’m still undecided about it. But the earlier material is cool. The obscurantist in me (which often combines with my persnickety rep and inspires some raised eyebrows) qualifies that The Who weren’t as great as the mainstream adulation seems to indicate. But I really feel that way about every band or artist that gets the mainstream “classic” treatment except for Hendrix and Dylan (and if you would’ve asked me about Bob ten years ago, I’d have mouthed a few backhanded compliments and then proceeded to start praising Phil Ochs). The reality though is that from about age 12 to my freshman year in high school the early brute sneering and defiant R & B worship of The Who really served a personal need that would later be meet with punk rock as the pains of adolescence festered and burned. These days, I can’t deny that I value the molten gusto of The Creation’s “Making Time” or loads of stuff from a relatively unheralded band like Downliners Sect much more. And I’m always tempted to praise a group from the aboveground canon such as The Small Faces over The Who. Obscurantism, persnickety, contrarian, whatever. I will say that I find “ I Can’t Explain” to be the best of their established hits, with “Pictures of Lily”, “Substitute” and “The Kids are Alright” not far behind. “My Generation” is great enough to withstand the grind of being overplayed. It’s a drag that only three of the above songs were actually recorded in the BBC studios. But there are other positive moments to be found here (“Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere”, anyone?). I won’t deny that I’d rather listen to a collection of the complete High Numbers recordings, but I’m that kind of guy.

SATURDAY 12/26- Bardo Pond has been around for quite a while, and it’s been seven or eight years since I first spun one of their CDs. I saw then live sandwiched between the bonkers noise shenanigans of Magik Markers and the magnificent Dinosaur Jr on that band’s first reunion tour a few years back, and I thought their heavy psychedelia with droney touches was just fantastic in that setting. For some, it might seem a little unseemly to follow the brilliance of Jimmy Giuffre with the grimy rock-based gunk of the Pond. Posh, I say. For one thing Bardo at their best (like the stuff from the absolutely essential Harmony of the Spheres comp on Drunken Fish, and like here for that matter) share a seriousness of purpose with a jazz master like Giuffre that makes just as much sense as segueing into Bill Dixon or Alan Shorter. Bardo Pond are primarily a deep listening experience, which is why they are often one of the only “rock” bands that many discerning listeners continue to connect with after they leave the genre behind. The attention to detail and the avoidance of rockist trappings make them a real breath of fresh air, particularly in a glutted indie-field where generics and the embracement of cliché for short term gratification can be frustrating. Make no bones, Bardo Pond are a long term band (in fact they remind me of the Grateful Dead in some ways). And they can kick up a lot of heat. Anybody who likes the sound of instruments expertly falling into a pattern and then just riding it (to the point where you feel like, shit, I’ve ALWAYS been in this groove) that isn’t hep to this band needs to make a serious correction. Same goes for folks who love the more recent metallic molasses crunch of Sun 0))) or Om. If the gatefolds of your double albums all smell like weed, you need this yesterday.

Bardo Pond's Set and Setting

SUNDAY 12/28- David Candy isn’t really David Candy. He’s actually Ian Svenonius. Besides a few songs by The Cupid Car Club, this was the only chapter in Ian’s conceptual shebang that I didn’t know, and thanks to EMusic, that’s a thing of the past. Because this didn’t have the longevity or live performance brilliance of The Nation of Ulysses, The Make*Up or Weird War, I know I’m not the only person who missed this boat. And thus far I’ve only taken a sail on it once while making a salad and half watching college basketball with the volume down. So I didn’t really listen to it I guess. It was a nice soundtrack/backdrop though. Sure as shit better than Dick Vitale. I did gather that this is the least conceptual and most forthrightly hommage-laden project that Svenonius has engineered. If the puckish, flowery side of late-mod behavior gives you the heebie-jeebies I’d stay away. But I’m cool with it. It kind of makes me want to watch Blow Up in a silk kimono.