Voltaire and Keith Jarrett

"Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd."
- Voltaire
So says the man who wrote Candide. Can’t argue that one too hard. One thing of which I am certain is that Keith Jarrett is an incandescent and touched by the muse pianist. I saw him on Sunday night at the SF Opera House and it was staggering, astonishing, whatever adjectives our poor imperfect language can muster up. Words are such an inaedquate translation for music.

I was surprised to not encounter more of my fellow musicians there. Perhaps it was because of the ticket prices, maybe because it was Sunday night…pianists Adam Shulman and Nancy Topf and drummer Tim Bulkley were there, all of whom were equally blown away, but I saw very few players among the sold-out throng. Mainly the audience was Keith fans and wealthy SFJAZZ patrons (of whom there are legions).

At any rate, Keith drew far more on dense and often dissonant 20th century classical language for his improvisations than he uses for the trio settings with Gary and Jack. Odd that 3 such adventurous musicians have created a very inside, if utterly lovely and swinging palate, in that trio. So I was very pleased to hear Keith draw from the colors he has used in other settings, as well as some new worlds. His technique is astonishing, but what is clear to me is that it is always, like Wayne, Herbie, Miles, later Trane, Lester, etc…in the service of musical expression. I cannot hang with the technique for technique’s sake crowd any more. It bores the shit out of me. I am equally bored and, frankly, a little offended by the (as my wife would put it) searching for termites "creative music" crowd who say “hey, it’s all good, shit happens, and what’s a beat between friends, anyway?” So when you hear folks who are master artists/craftsmen for whom technique is something synergized with expression and is the unseen way to express the indefinable and infinite, THAT thrills me. Wayne, Trane, Miles, Herbie, Ray, Sinatra, those are a few who come to mind in that regard. I have recently begun a very fun musical hookup with guitarist John Stowell, and he is definitely in that mode. I can think of no one who does it better than does Keith.

His sound alone is inexpressibly beautiful. His touch is liquid. I have never heard a more beautiful tone on the piano, and of course, it is tones…his harmonic knowledge is encyclopedic, spanning everything from Bartok to Takemitsu to the songbook to blues to Miles to gospel to….??? He is supremely about melody and the truth is, I think the reason he grunts, sings, hollers, moans, is that (at least in part) he is somehow trying to wring a vocalist out of that extraordinary tuned percussion instrument. It was all magical to me, but the one that sent me into a reverent trance was his second of 4! Encores. In this one he set up a bubbling La Mer style ostinato rippling endlessly between two hands, as a pan-diatonic melody inner voice slowly wound its way up, down and around the keyboard. It is one of the most amazing moments I have ever heard live, and I remember wishing it would not end, even as I knew it had to.

Of course, no Jarrett concert is complete without a little gratuitous bitching out of the audience. This time, after the 7th bow and before the 4th and last encore, he chastised “the tourists, the souvenir hunters” in the crowd for having the temerity to take snaps on their cell phones of him acknowledging applause. That shit gets a little old, but as always, while it would be nice if there were a necessary connection between someone’s artistry and their personal goodness, twas never that way. Sometimes nice guys make lovely art, sometimes it’s the high maintenance ones and troubled souls. I hear that, for next time, Keith has written it into his contract that his audience will be tied to chairs with red ball gags in their mouths so as to not disturb his grunting reverie – I kid, but I bet a good number of the folks at the opera house on Sunday would agree to those terms if they got to hear what we heard. (I'll stick to the CD, thanks.) I have read that Keith is trying to remake his image, saying “I’m really not such a cantankerous bastard” or some such. Well, he may need to change therapists, but not if it means he stops playing such wonderful piano once he gets well-adjusted.

Anyway, to close full circle w/Mister Voltaire, since doubt is all that is certain, or, as the Buddhists say, the only moment we have is now, it is wonderful to savor the sweet ones, one of which was mine in SF on Sunday night, sharing Keith’s artistry with 2000 or so other fortunate souls.

Nurture is Nature and The Big Bang

Just finished writing two more tunes in my cherished shed, like virtually everything I’ve written the last 10 plus years, in a beat-up three ring binder, all with pencil or pen and paper at the piano (sometimes, in the case of the pop stuff, guitar). I tried writing on a sequencer, but for me, there is something very pure and timeless about using the same method as the composers have been doing since the time of Palestrina and before…Anyway, it turns out that, even with many additions of manuscript paper, I had come to the end of the book, so, appropriately enough, the tune is called “last page in the book – nurture is nature is…” so look for it on your mega-store endcaps soon. It has occurred to me that for all of us, the first and last sentence of our book is the same: he was born. he died. It’s how we fill it in that is interesting. The title partially refers to that.

The other song I wrote tonight is called night watchman, a nod to the fact of my late night jazzer tendencies from an early age. I remember hiding the radio under the covers when I was a teenager, so I could hear the faint and static tones of Kasey Kasem counting down America’s top 40 between midnight and 1 am, as the rest of my family soundly slept. So being a jazzer was predestined. I’ve always been vaguely suspicious of folks who loved to rise early and go to bed early, and a true upgrade in quality of life in my hood is the opening of two high-end late night restaurants around here, Fonda and T Rex, not to mention authentic Chinese at Daimo. Still, I miss being able to go to any number of great late night spots around here the way I could in NYC. Oh well, got to stop looking for Indian food in a Japanese restaurant, ya know? At any rate, as my wife and son hit it for another early night of sleep, I am in love with the stillness of the night.

Cool weekend coming up, will see Frederica Von Stade Friday, Jarrett Sunday and of course my gig at Anna’s with Susan Muscarella on Monday. Rumor has it John Stowell may stop by, and Carla has also threatened to come sing a tune. Both sound fun.

As for the world…sigh…Feingold is a mensch, the weak-kneed Dems who are running from his censure motion are in need of a balls transplant. (BTW, having balls is not gender-specific. Arianna Huffington and Susan Sarandon have them. Alan Colmes and the caving Dem men don’t. You can substitute the more elegant courage of his/her convictions if you like.) The Dems have become such a bunch of equivocating, poll-sniffing cowards it is disgusting. The Goppers have a sorry litany of excrement from McCarthy to Nixon to Gingrich to Reagan to Bushco to Frist to Lott to Delay to, well, you get the idea. Folks filled with hate, twisting us and appealing to whatever divide and conquer fear tactics they can, but from Goldwater on, they have the courage of their kooky konviktions! Where have you gone Bobby Kennedy (the good Bobby.) W and his gang have lied about WMD, gone to an optional war which has caused about 100,000 needless deaths (more than all terrorist acts, period) sanctioned torture, created a powder keg and civil war in the making, shredded our civil liberties, shit on the constitution, eviscerated environmental safeguards, appointed justices who question the idea of one man one vote and turned the largest surplus in history in to the largest deficit in history, all while lining the pockets of their ultra-rich base. Meanwhile, the Dems wring their hands and worry about alienating the swing voter. Anyway, heartening to see the occasional bit of bravery from Senator Feingold.

On a positive and awe-inspiring final note, did you see the story that scientists have now confirmed that the universe turned from something the size of a marble to astronomical size in a trillionth of a trillionth (aka a sextillionth) of a second?

As the CBC reports, 'NASA's Wilkinson Microwave Anisotropy Probe or WMAP spacecraft is looking at the afterglow of energy from the Big Bang, believed to have occurred about 13.7 billion years ago, to help researchers understand how the universe formed.


"We report today the most precise measurements of our infant universe," said Charles Bennett, principal investigator for the NASA mission.

"We have new evidence that the universe suddenly grew from sub-microscopic to astronomical size in less than the blink of an eye," Bennett told a telephone news conference.

The event happened in less than a trillionth of a second, according to the researchers, who analyzed variations in the brightness of microwave radiation, or cosmic microwave background, to find the evidence.'

And the vast majority of our tiny little planet in a obscure byway of a not very important galaxy subscribe to the all-encompassing we are the apple of the intelligent designers' eye explanations developed by our distant and primitive forbears who didn’t even know the earth revolved around the sun and you should wash your hands before you eat!!!

Well,this is one camper who ain't buying what they are selling, boys and girls. The only answer worth embracing to me is the question. So I leave you with what that fellow Bill Shakespeare said all these moons ago. “There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy.” AND Diogu got 21 points in 24 minutes tonight.

Mo' Warriors, Anna's, Jon Stewart, Frederica Von Stade, Keith Jarrett and aging parents

Sigh…it was clear in high school and it remains clear today – you don’t have to be very smart to be an athlete…I am suffering through another woeful, execrable Warriors Bball performance, as the “brain trust” of White Montgomery and clean and sober Mullin continue their managerial brilliance. I know, I know – you are wondering.Is this a jazz or basketball blog? Yes.
White Dumbleavy has played 30 minutes with a stellar 1-8 shooting, Goy Murphy is a scintillating 6 points in 32 minutes, and of course I can understand why Ike underachiever Diogu is on the bench with a “mere” 4 points in 5 minutes. Meanwhile, Adonal hands of stone Foyle (despite his good politics) continues to fumble away every opportunity, Baron does his little kabuki channeling of I am too Kobe,I am too Kobe as he forces up shots he can’t make anymore and Fisher insists on passes into 3 defenders. Look, I am not making Ike out to be the messiah, but it clearly does not take a rocket scientist or someone who can play modern jazz to figure out that you have a guy in Diogu who is the only credible low post scoring threat and leads his team in field goal percentage. Meanwhile, when you opt for stiffs like Dunleavy and Foyle who have repeatedly demonstrated their incompetence, I have to say that either/or and/also Montgomery/Mullin need to go. The only untouchable on the Warriors is Jason Richardson, but all else needs to be on the table. Oh, just in case you are wondering, some of my best friends are White (including myself) and Nash is my favorite player and should repeat as MVP. It is just a drag to see lesser talents getting more PT, and in almost every case they are White. Why? So the largely white upper-middle class fan base that can afford these usurious prices can have someone to relate to. I think the calculation is, the lawyer in Danville or the CPA in San Ramon is going to relate more to a Dunleavy than to a Rasheed Wallace. Still, when you see someone who is such a disappointment as Dumbleavy raking in huge bucks while adding a subheading to overpaid, you have to wonder when Mullin is going to wise up. I will observe that Diogu may be the most mishandled talent since Jermaine O’Neal in Portland or at least Boris Diaw in Atlanta.

On the brighter side of things, Zilberella did its first Monday gig at Anna’s Jazz Island on March 6, and it went exceedingly well. I think it’s the best the group has played together as a group – more fire, exploration and a great feeling among the players. Matt Renzi, a very fine tenor player sat in, which added to the festivities. There is little I enjoy more than playing with another strong tenor player, since we speak exactly the same language so it makes for the best conversation. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we ended up playing a 2 hour set instead of breaking and doing two 45-50 minute ones. Hopefully, those of you who read this blog will get a chance to come down and check it out sometime…it’s a great room in a nice part of Berkeley and we hope it turns into a little bit of a scene, so spread the word. (www.annasjazzisland.com)

My folks have been in town, to see Carla’s show, Zilberella and just visit. It is poignant and bittersweet, as it is for all children when they see their parents age. In my case, my father, one of my three heroes when I was growing up, John Lennon and Bobby Kennedy being the other two, is getting rather foggy, memory-wise, and has slowed up considerably in the physical department. Still, he is a sweet and kind man and is blessed with a wife who nurtures and takes care of him. They’ve been married over 51 years now, and are truly each other’s romantic partners still. It is painful to watch the very natural process of a long goodbye…I was grateful that they were able to hear and enjoy our gig at Anna’s, one of countless they have been at over the years. They always have given me unstinting support for my music, and have bestowed all kinds of other gifts, large and small, not the least of which was the belief that music is its own reward and justification. Loss is in the air, lately, at least in my circles. A friend of mine’s mother just passed after a lengthy illness, another’s father just suffered a massive heart attack, and an older friend is recovering from a brain tumor, so it is crucial to remind myself to prioritize and enjoy what time I am given with those I love. I will say I have never met a more decent and honorable person than my father, who was also wise to a fault.

On a lighter note, Jon Stewart is, arguably, the subtlest humorist I know of. Even on a creaky, self-inflating spectacle like the Oscars, he managed to gently and deftly skewer the proceedings. I haven’t watched one of these tedious events in years upon years, but Stewart made the dreariness semi-palatable. My faves? His jest at Spielberg in light of Schindler’s List and Munich, “we Jews can’t wait to see what happens next…trilogy.” His add-on after the self-hagiographic montage on Hollywood’s fight against injustice “and there were never any problems again”. The mock attack ads he and Stephen Colbert did, as well as his wry line “I guess it just got a little easier to be a pimp” after three 6 mafia took home the oscar in a category where one song was worse than the next – also, what is the deal with Dolly Parton? She looks exactly the same as she did 30 years ago, and that is some kind of a testament to the surgical profession or Dr. Faustus’ friend.

So in addition to playing Anna’s and other joints, I am going to catch 2 icons in the next couple of weeks: Frederica Von Stade on the 17th and Keith Jarrett on the 19th, going solo to both, as Carla has performances. With Von Stade, I have to confess to being more curious than compelled, but it’s all for a good cause, the Jazzschool benefit. Also, I have never heard one of the world’s great sopranos in person, and want to be open to that experience. I have been listening deeply and regularly to Jarrett’s version of It’s All In the Game, as discussed in a previous blog, so am very much looking forward to what he’s like solo, having heard him 3-4 times with his trio. Anyway, to coin a phrase, good night and good luck, I’m off to work on that cold fusion project in the basement…

Random (semi) deep thoughts on a (relatively) cold night

So some random thoughts on this cold (for the Bay area) night – the kind of night that makes you want some home-made chicken soup.

A brief post-mortem on Chris Potter’s show…Chris is a tremendous saxophonist, with astonishing fingers and a powerful sense of intervallic structures. Ran into a bunch of cats I knew down there, including fellow saxophonists Larry DelaCruz, Sheldon Brown and Anton Swartz. (You always know a player is hot when a bunch of fellow sax players are there listening. We are not like drummers. As a general rule, we are more selective in our unbridled enthusiasms. You heard the joke about how many sax players it takes to screw in a light bulb? 9…one to do it and 8 to say “nice, man” as they each secretly think “I could have done it better, how come I didn’t get asked to screw in the bulb?”)

Anyway, not the case here. Chris dazzled one and all with his saxophonistic brilliance. Larry (one of the great people in the universe, btw) said of his solo cadenzas “man, makes me want to go and practice some unaccompanied Bach Cello things” and I knew what he meant. Some of what Chris does, esp on the solo sax tip, reminds me of the Marcel Mule and Bitsch etudes I used to practice back in my classical sax days (daze?) many moons ago. Chris underlined a point I have been developing that on each instrument there are two kinds of players - those who are inextricably bound up in their particular instrument and those who are musicians who happen to play a particular instrument. I think of Wayne Shorter, Miles Davis, and Jack Dejohnette as being three examples of musicians who play an instrument and Mike Brecker, Freddie Hubbard and Steve Smith as been examples of a saxist, trumpeter and drummer who I cannot imagine on another instrument. They have, as Carla would say, a love affair with their particular instrument, whereas the Dejohnette model would find anything from a comb to a seashell to express the music in them. No value judgment here on one or the other, as all are amazing players,just an observation on approaches – I would put Chris in the saxophonist side of the spectrum. He is a masterful saxophone virtuoso who is a saxophonist’s sax player…btw, I think the most interesting case in this regard is Trane, who went from being a saxophonist to a musician who played the saxophone, particularly by the Crescent era…

The false choice: I’ve been kicking around this idea for a while and it will probably be the subject of an expanded entry, but here’s a tease: Many aspiring jazz players are presented with a false choice between craft and creativity, and tend to separate into two warring camps – either you are a tradition-bound codifying literalist, or you are a loosey-goosey, patchouli-wearing free jazzer. I think this is reductive thinking. All of my favorite players from Armstrong forward were at once creative and craftsman. Here’s a saying I came up with that has a lot of Cs. You may like it: Craft and creativity are not contradictory but rather are complementary. And they are not consecutive but rather are concurrent.

I have a phrase for the lick-stealing type of jazz: Fear-based improvising. What is more uncertain and in the moment than true improvising? If one has an arsenal of predigested and well-honed licks, especially from the masters, one can’t make a “mistake” and therefore can’t be chastised for same. The fear-based improvisers spend a decade memorizing and regurgitating every tried and true line they can find, emulate player a, b or c, whether Sonny, Trane or Bird down to the amount of saliva on the reed, and then, one day, expect someone to wave a magic wand and “poof”, they have their own voices. It doesn’t work that way.

Go back and listen to the earliest recordings of Miles, of Bird, of Wayne, of Chick, of Jaco – THEY ALWAYS SOUNDED LIKE THEMSELVES. Check out Miles’ solo on Now’s the Time when he is 19. Tell me another trumpet player who sounded like that then! People keep talking about how Wayne used to sound exactly like Trane or Sonny, but I have heard his earliest recorded shit and he always sounded original. He couldn’t help it. I think it is a fool’s errand to cop one player’s language, sound and phrasing, note for note and think that somehow that is the path to your own voice. It is crucial in terms of understanding deep levels of swing and phrasing that you can’t get any other way, but aping another does not help you get your own voice. That is counterintuitive. Kind of like someone saying, imitate Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Crane for 10 years and “presto” you to can be the next great novelist. I think that is why there such a staggering paucity of originality in our huge stable of lick and pattern-fed virtuoisi.

Now the flip side of that coin is the “dude, don’t get so hung up if I don’t know the notes in an F#7#11, or sped up that tempo or dropped that bar –I mean, it’s all about the feeling. Have you checked out my Monk project with Zither, DJ and nose flute? It’s all in 13/8…” These are the folks who never made the necessary effort to learn the common language that is such an intrinsic part of what makes this music so beautiful and deep. One can hear in just a few bars that the “creative music” scene players, as a rule, can’t negotiate harmony, melody and rhythm competently, and tend to construct varied rationales and paradigms wherein this just doesn’t matter. In much the same way that someone with a bad tennis serve will take down the net and paint over the serve lines to make his serve more successful, those who would dispense with the common language craft of jazz take away changes, time, pitch, etc…in order to make their playing sound more successful in context.

To me, the models are endless of those who have showed the craft/creativity debate to be a false choice. They are our pantheon of genius and inspiration. Miles, Trane, Wayne, Herbie, Keith, Lieb, Tony, Elvin, Dejohnette, Jaco, Metheney, Brecker and so on and so on. So I go back to it: Craft and creativity among those learning to be jazz players ARE complementary and concurrent. Depend on it.

I leave you with this: Remember the wonderful poem?

Sir, I admit the general rule that every poet is a fool
But you yourself do prove to show it, that every fool is not a poet.

Here’s my version about the false dichotomy between craft and art:

Sir, I admit, that for a start,
you need your craft to ply your art,
but craft although it has its role,
will not suffice for heart and soul.
Conversely, artistes, don’t assume,
that art alone will build your room.
You need your craft, I cannot stress
enough if you wish to express.
Art needs craft and craft needs art,
like we need love and brain needs heart.
So throw away this falsest choice:
with craft AND art you’ll find your voice.

O.K. – now where’s that chicken soup when you need it?