Nathanial's Nasty As He Wanna Be,
Volume III: Racial Harmony in a Not-So-Harmonious Music
by Nathanial Friedman, found beyond truehiphop.com, late 1998
Most accounts of the history of avant-garde jazz are shot through with a not-so-subtle
racial subtext. American free jazz is presented as ecstatic, unbridled, and
effusive, holding the same "crazy nigger music" appeal that drew
mainstream (white) America to jazz in the first place. European free music,
by contrast, is dismissed as staid, academic, and hopelessly tied to the self-conscious
ferment of modernism. American musicians were at best praised for trying to
recapture the anarchic spirit of early jazz, at worst accused of not knowing
how to play their instruments; Europeans found a ready audience for their "new
sounds," were able to organize extensively, and eventually received government
money. Ironically, it was the Europeans who were most interested in tumult-for-its-own-sake
and quasi-dadaist considerations of pure sound. American free jazz players-the "crazy
upstart niggers"-were concerned with expanding and rarefying jazz's emotional
and technical possibilities, just as bop had done twenty years before.
Whether or not this popular version of the story is true, it certainly captures
something of the polarization of the two scenes. American free jazz was hopelessly
bound up in the (narcissistic) metaphysical politics of the sixties, while
the first wave of European improvisers were ivory-tower artists. Although the
Americans' frequent trips to Europe resulted in more than a few one-shot collaborations,
it wasn't until the late seventies that the two scenes began to stake out common
ground. Essentially, this meant that the cerebral Americans collaborated with
the cerebral Europeans, and that the more torrential European players began
to infuse their proto-punk blow-ups with a certain degree of poetry.
Twenty years after this cross-pollination began, the best working group in
free music is a trio comprised of two black guys and a German-a combination
which hammers home the "universal harmony" and "complete communion" rhetoric
associated with American free jazz. You'll find their albums filed under the
name of the German saxophonist, Thomas Borgmann (racism, racism. . . ). But
the backbone of the group is its rock-solid drums and bass team. On two recent
recordings, free jazz relic Denis Charles is behind the kit; after Charles'
death earlier this year, Reggie Nicholson-the only living drummer who can play
this music with as much taste and grace as Charles or the late Steve McCall
both did-inherited the drum chair. The de facto leader of the group is bassist
Wilbur Morris, who has been around since the NYC loft scene of the late seventies.
Boom Swing, just released on Konnex, documents one (virtual) set of a 1997
concert in Austria. Yes, the group's interactions are staggeringly sensitive;
yes, there is a lot of ass-kicking, even a few windows of transcendence. But
most of all, the music grooves like hell. Borgmann is one of the few European
(hell, make that white) musicians smart enough to not try and copy black stylists.
His terse, shuddering lines sometimes ride the rhythmic currents, sometimes
bear down against it. But he very wisely defers to Morris and Charles when
it comes to determining the feel of a piece. On tenor, he has a breathy sound
that recalls Lester Young at his most aggressive. His sopranio playing is all
split-tones and askance lacerations, late Coltrane with a bad hangover. But
again, all noisiness aside, Borgmann pulls off some beautiful, highly narrative
stuff.
Morris is probably the music's best living bassist. Unlike any number of free
jazz bassists (William Parker, for one), Morris understands how to simultaneously
propel a band and bandy with a horn on the melodic front lines. His tone is
harsh, sometimes thin and bony. But his presence is nothing short of commanding.
Whether walking insistently, pounding out globular notes in the lowest register,
or emitting a screechy flurry of bowed harmonics, Morris drives the band. His
solos are nothing short of heart-stopping, with their consummate blend of technical
daring-do, suspense, and good old-fashioned pathos.
If Borgmann is the mouth of the group and Morris the legs, Charles is the heartbeat.
Charles' rollicking style owes a heavy debt to the Caribbean bands he played
in as a teen; note his predilection for heavy, earthy figures on the toms,
or his ability to sustain a flickering groove with a few mysteriously placed
cymbal splashes. Charles also was musical enough to hit one drum and make the
world end, as evidenced by his stately solos spots. Ultimately, this trio's
music is about this kind of musicality. The music grooves, the solos are cogent
beyond belief, and the emotional range far wider than most jazz being made
today. The initial shock of this genre has long worn off; maybe it's about
time people realize that it offers a far more potent and expressive listening
experience than 98% of the slavishly boppish jazz that major labels continue
to spoon-feed to aesthetes and cultural snobs of all stripes.
Stalker Songs, released last spring on CIMP, finds Euro-improv legend Peter
Brotzmann sitting in with the trio for two formidable, half-hour-long pieces.
The group's alchemy is by no means dilluted by the studio setting; in fact,
the session has a far greater sense of purpose than their loose-limbed live
albums. Perhaps this also has something to do with Brotzmann's deathly earnest
contribution. Although Brotzmann has certainly played louder in the past, he
rarely has sounded as forceful as he does here. In the process, he very nearly
steamrolls the others, and almost always steals the show. But Morris and Charles
complement the uber-tenor's playing beautifully, underscoring the fact that
the emotional content of Brotzmann's playing is nearly as variegated as the
ungodly sounds he manages to wring out of his horn. Borgmann makes an admirable
showing, but functions more often than not as respite from Brotzmann's gut-pulping
expositions.
Buy Stalker Songs for proof that Europeans have as much soul as Black folks,
pick up Boom Swing for a chance to see just why so many people swear by avant-garde
jazz.
Backrub to Nathanial:
Nasty As He Wanna Be, Volume I
Backrub to Nathanial:
Nasty As He Wanna Be, Volume II
Nathanial doesn't even know
who Happy Joe or his puppet are.