1967: Gato Barbieri - In Search of the Mystery
Even the most casual listener’s cursory research can trace back the origins of free jazz and its major players, figures who hang like deities in a Caribbean grocery store: Coltrane, Ornette, Mingus, Ayler, Sun Ra, etc. All amazing musicians who transcended linear arrangements, traditional solo structures, and the possibilities of that music that started the whole sex, drugs, and what have you: jazz. All fine and dandy artists.
All of these beings, of course, are American.
The music did originate in the US, so it’s bound to have representatives of the highest order. Go deeper and you’ll find the European masters of chaos like Derek Bailey, Peter Brötzmann, and Han Bennink, or even delight yourself on the orgasmic brutality of Japanese destroyers like Kaoru Abe and Masayuki Takayanagi. But, what about the dirty dirty south? I mean the really really dirty dirty south? Of the Western Hemisphere?
You’d need to be a George W-brand idiot to believe there’s no free jazz south of El Paso; still, one is caught without much argument that there’s almost no major players within the skronk-honk business that are from Mexico, Central, and South America. The few that make it to the ears of connoisseurs are mostly odd additions to very detailed collections; still, fewer artists were there when it all happened in the first place, when the hot sound of the cool cats was set free from its own obliterating slavery (and into another kind of music idiom, with forms and structures, but that’s another discussion for another day).
A reason might be that free jazz attempts to reach for the ultimate state of being, of the most plentiful of liberties spiritually through sound, all done with an artillery to create a magnificent cacophony — sharp high notes, rumbling low-end mumbles, cymbal crashes. Bullets, explosions, and landmines that are the language of war — a modern electric, merciless, honorless war — not of desperate and impoverished people working for the goals of a manipulative asshole, but one of unsettling global consequences. USA, Europe, and Japan were all part of the two biggest and cruelest armed conflicts in the 20th century with an outcome ingrained in the subconscious of all their citizens from then on.
But seldom did it have a major impact in Latin America, with hardly anyone there having contact with the battlefields and the aftermath (Nazis going into hiding there don’t count). The idea of a collective afterlife, of a new chance for the masses through chaos and destruction — via technology and weaponry — is not uncommon in many fields and disciplines, and the free jazzers from territories that were affected by WWI and WWII certainly tap into that point of view when playing in public. Yet native Latinos have little concept of rebirth through destruction. For them, wars are civilians kicking the living shit out of some corrupted government to install a new kind of government and live happily until their new appointed leaders become oppressive and corrupted themselves. In other words, war is a local phenomenon, and its consequences have a different kind of effect. Perhaps this is why, when the free-jazz call to arms was put forth for a better, peaceful, and more enlightened tomorrow, Latin American people thought it was a flawed and doomed cycle.
Or maybe all of this is bullshit I’m making up and people near the southern hemisphere just really love structured rhythms to dance to.
At least Leandro “Gato” Barbieri didn’t think so, consciously or subconsciously. Hailing from Argentina, Barbieri was in the thick of improvised mayhem, recording for ESP-Disk — home to some of the most radical no-bop players and most insane acts, even by today’s standards, outside of jazz — collaborating with Don Cherry and Charlie Haden, making his tenor saxophone scream for and with vengeance. Although he recorded a number of earlier albums along with Cherry, In Search of the Mystery is his first album as a leader, in this case of a quartet featuring sax, drums, bass, and cello, the latter of which provides atmosphere and drones to an album of busy intervals, varying from discordant hard bop to all-out, no-rules beatdowns of frequencies, accidental chords, and wails of desperation, imitating Barbieri’s very nickname (“Cat” in spanish) on sax. All instruments add elements that surprise and complement, most notably the bass, which sometimes mimics inverted guitar chords. The ebb and flow of the whole affair is telepathically precise in its spontaneity, attacking then retracting to safer, warmer places, just to spike again into exchanges of dissonant notes that battle like a fencing match with 14 swords each.
Barbieri’s playing didn’t remain within this style for long; by the late 60s, he would start incorporating sounds of Spain and South America into his playing, as well as more structured and conventional styles (as heard on the score to Bertolucci’s film Last Tango in Paris, which, no doubt, has some inspiration from the jam sessions with fellow countrymate Lalo Schifrin). He continued his road to convention until the 80s when his wife Michelle (half the title of the first piece of In Search…) died, leaving him more or less retired from music. ESP-Disk is reissuing this album to remind us that Gato once heard the good news of bad skronk, said “I want to do that too,” and made one of the most well-developed albums free jazz ever hoped to achieve.
1969: The Savage Rose - "Trial in Our Native Town"
It’s not clear where to place this track. Are we hearing some form of proto-metal, or has the Jefferson Airplane blimp been shot down and replaced with the flag of a rival vocalist? In 1969, The Savage Rose’s founder siblings (Thomas and Anders Koppel) were only at the beginning of their wide-eyed adventure into rock ‘n’ roll territory and were no wiser. By their early twenties the brothers could claim the distinction of calling themselves a composer and a novelist in their turn, but by their own account they threw away the honors to follow what the kids on the street were doing. From the start they seemed to welcome into the project whatever was current and appealed to them. Thus they adopted the stray blues alley cat Annisette and later harnessed her powerful voice in the service of several musical experiments, some of the dodgy gospel variety. The band discovered more than a new style in rock ‘n’ roll – rather a whole new pioneering attitude, which sent them a little overboard sometimes, sympathizing with the Black Panther movement in the 70s for instance. Anyway, their almost cosmic ambitions are already evident in “Trial in Our Native Town.” These ambitions didn’t make them much money, and their own version of excess was far from selling out. It was the slightly scatty pursuit of the hippie ideal. The strident organ on the last track of their 1968 album In the Plain is one of the most distinctive features of the band, and together with Annisette’s voice it publishes their revolutionary intentions loud and clear.
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1995: Hum - You'd Prefer an Astronaut
Music has always had strong ties to nostalgia, be it personal or global. Certain songs, albums, and artists transport us through a minefield of emotions deeply rooted in our over-stimulated bodies. It’s why listening to You’d Prefer an Astronaut still makes me relive a 15-year-old decision to purchase a Hum album over Silverchair’s Frogstomp. All my friends had Frogstomp, so why did I need to add to the pile? The true thrill of purchasing music — at least during the death rattle of major labels — was weighing what you wanted against what CDs your friends had. No one had You’d Prefer an Astronaut, and we all loved “Stars,” so the scales were tipped and a love affair that has lasted longer than anything else in my limited lifespan began.
That zebra affixed to the bright green background is an odd palate choice when inviting listeners into the idea of space. It was just one of many curveballs thrown by Hum through the course of the album, one that’s still as fresh as it was in 1995. Despite song titles buoying the album’s proclamation (“Little Dipper,” “The Pod,” and of course cult radio hit “Stars”) and casual flirtations with the definitions of space in Matt Talbott’s lyrics, You’d Prefer an Astronaut was more about the Big Bang of sonic expansion than the garbled lines of alternative-era prose. The press of the time was quick to lump Hum in with the rest of the Northern Illinois (specifically Chicago), but how lazy and ignorant were they?
Fifteen years later, You’d Prefer an Astronaut feels as if it should be nestled in retail bins alongside Funeral, You Forgot It in People, and Sung Tongs. In a musical generation that celebrates the tiniest difference in design, You’d Prefer an Astronaut continues to boast nine tracks of innovative tunings, odd time signatures, and challenging song lengths. The opening triptych of “Little Dipper,” “The Pod,” and “Stars” is slightly at odds with this claim, as each is built on straight-ahead alternative riffage, but as layers are slowly peeled away with each listen, the art of discovery begins. The seemingly simple melodies begin to morph into dynamically textured experiments. Slight tweaks in tempo and timbre are sprinkled throughout, especially as “The Pod” transitions from its angry tone into an upbeat acoustic outro. “Stars” also relies on shifting dynamics; from its quiet, lazy strums to a punchy guitar assault and back to its dreamy ending. As far as singles go, none do more to represent just how deep You’d Prefer an Astronaut delves despite its seemingly bare-bones approach.
The back half of You’d Prefer an Astronaut was their playground. From the beginning of “Why I Like the Robins” to the fade out of “Songs of Farewell and Departure,” the many swells of style and substance flourish away from the scrutiny of the alternative era’s demand for a rocking first half. “I’d Like Your Hair Long,” which was Astronaut’s first single, proves to be the band’s finest moment. The lackadaisical pickings mixed with a crunchy guitar melody alongside Bryan St. Pere’s hard hitting fills and syncopated cymbal crashes put the track on an island all its own. It wasn’t punk enough; it was too far out to be of the Alternative Nation mold; and its length didn’t allow for the quick impressions and repeated listens that the mid-90s music scene thrived upon. The lyrics were acerbic — the only link it and much of the album has to the era in which it was created.
You’d Prefer an Astronaut will never be an album for the masses. It’s unwashed, rustic, and odd. But in a police lineup, you’d be quick to pick it out; even amongst a backdrop of band’s that have tightened and perfected the Hum style in the time since, the album still feels unique. At some point, nostalgia wears off and all that’s left is the shell. While memories of standing in a Musicland with the album proudly in hand remain strong, they no longer define what is contained within You’d Prefer an Astronaut. It’s an album that makes new memories with every listen, no matter what label executives and disappointing sales may otherwise have deciphered.
1966: Hopeton Lewis - "Take It Easy"
He has since turned to spreading his unabashed love of the Lord through increasingly gospel-tinged music, but in 1966 all Hopeton Lewis wanted to do was take that shit straight ease, brah. Lots of crazy things were happening in Jamaica in the 60s – musical and otherwise – but Lewis’ illusory lyrical minimalism implored its people to rise above it all.
“Take it Easy” is barebones by definition: one guitar, drums, vocals. This is proto-reggae at its very finest – dub be damned. Where enterprising island DJs would later rip a track apart and stone it out of its gourd with bass and slapback, Lewis’ studio itinerary involved little else besides the very essence of the thing. He was, and still is, driven by the spirit of song.
“The road is rough/ And don’t you ever get stuck/ Take your time/ Take it easy/ No need to hurry.”
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1980s, 2009-10: Darkwave Creatures
Home Sweet Home is an unmarked basement bar on the edge of Manhattan’s Chinatown near the Lower East Side. There are a few stuffed birds and rodents displayed in a glass case underneath the bar, as if the owner originally wanted a taxidermy-theme before leasing the bar out to the New York rock underground of the early 2000’s. Past the bar, the DJ deck overlooks a dancefloor alight with a disorienting discoball glow and hazy with automated fog. For a while there was a tacit understanding that after a certain hour you could smoke at the bottom of the entrance stairwell. Still, Home Sweet Home is too self aware to be considered actually grimy: you wouldn’t buy cocaine here, although if you already had some this would certainly be a place to do it. On the right night, first time patrons may very feel they have walked into a song from Interpol’s Turn on the Bright Lights.
Every Wednesday night, Wierd Records hosts Coldwave night with live music and dj sets. Coldwave refers to both a French born variant of darkwave as well as a new batch of Brooklyn based bands like Cold Cave, Light Asylum, Led Er Est, and Xeno and Oaklander among others (some of these band names hit the nail on the head a little too directly, I think). A scant eight or nine years after the great Joy Division/New Order boom that launched a million indie (as opposed to electronic) dance nights, it may seem strange to have such a blatant Ian Curtis vibe cycling back into vogue. You get the sense that the LES never really moved on, though, and Home Sweet Home certainly feels like an appropriate hub. Additionally, these bands are taking on the ole Factory Records sound with the contemporary approach of the Italo disco and lo-fi acts that have been rampant in popular DIY music for the past few years. Light Asylum, my favorite of the batch, have already cultivated a commanding live presence, and on the demo for “A Certain Person” (streaming on their myspace page) they make gloriously good on their promise to sound like “Ian and Grace making babies.” Grace Jones, that is. Just listen to that chorus.
Other times, the neo-coldwave sound doesn’t progress as far beyond its heavy-handed influences. “Just stop with the low budget Joy Division crap,” was my initital reaction to my friend who introduced me to this stuff. These bands are still in their early stages and are working through their growing pains on the stage. They already have a supportive scene and receptive audience, and I’m expecting to hear some interesting things. In the meantime though, here’s a few classics of the sound that I can’t really foresee being topped.
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• Clan Of Xymox - Stranger
Like “Blue Monday” but more operatic and well, Dutch. Pretty much defines the Darkwave sound and points towards house music.
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• A Certain Ratio – Do the Du (John Peel Session)
This song and band is admittedly outside the darkwave/coldwave domain, but “Do the Du” is a terrific example of how to inject the Ian Curtis vocal thing with some necessary levity. Splitting the difference betwen jangly post punk bands like Josef K and Orange Juice and starker Factory Records (which they were on) fare, the jouncy disco beat supplies the song with expressiveness by emphasizing the tonal shifts in singer Simon Topping’s low register. Soul Jazz re-issued this Peel Session rarity as a 7” in the early 2000s, memorably featuring a “hipside” and the “flipside.” The sleeve is pretty classic, with profiles of the five band members, four shirtless white yobs and a well dressed, sunglasses-sporting black gent.
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KaS Product were a French electronic duo whose work from the early 80’s is the touchstone for the coldwave sound. Their track “So Young but So Cold” can be considered an anthem of sorts for the scene. In this video for “Never Come Back” they take the coldwave tag seriously and perform in an unheated warehouse (you can see singer Mina Soyoc’s breath!).
Finally, Stones Throw recently released The Minimal Wave Tapes, Vol. II, compiled by Peanut Butter Wolf and East Village radio personality Veronica Vasicka, and featuring the old, rare stuff. It’s pretty great and serves as a timely supplement to the rise of Wierd Records/new coldwave.
2008: 2 Foot Yard - Borrowed Arms
Any band with a name that looks like somebody’s email password instantly arouses my suspicions — probably because clunky alphanumerical strings seemingly composed of someones ‘porn’ name and the year they were born were irritatingly prevalent among pop and dance bands of the early 90s. The number 2 was a repeat offender. In 1993 a euro trash rave band called 2 Unlimited held up the airwaves with the hit “No Limits.” Then there were Boys II Men. There was 2Pac.
Perhaps it’s just me, but 2 Foot Yard also has the whiff of a working title, like a loose confederation of Dutch DJs who got together for a couple of albums. But while they may be an ‘outfit’ of sorts, a vehicle for the talents of Marika Hughes (Charming Hostess, Vienna Teng), Shahzad Ismaily (too many to mention) and Carla Kihlstedt, they are no stuffed shirt. To name but a few of Ms Kihlstedt’s projects: Sleepytime Gorilla Museum (Mr. Bungle with violins), The Book of Knots (responsible for a compilation of scary portraits of rotten industrial towns), and a song cycle for the stage based around Jorge Luis Borges’ Book of Imaginary Beings. The last is particularly impressive when you consider the influence of another famous musical menagerie: Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals - which, while being the source of as many radio friendly soundbites as any pop album, is experimental, cacophonous in parts.
If I may extend the analogy to 2 Foot Yard themselves, the eponymous “Borrowed Arms” is the radio friendly equivalent of the Carnival’s ‘swan’ (song), a perfect gem of chamber pop that would be unpleasant only to someone in a really bad mood. On the other hand the album throws up tracks like “Crisis”, which is shouty and abrasive. Overall though, Borrowed Arms and 2 Foot Yard are an experiment within the parameters of pop. Carla Kihlstedt implied as much in an interview after a gig in Amsterdam (the home of techno I might add). The band’s tiny 2 Foot Yard was that limited space in which the artists were hanging their work, leaning their stepladders, paint cans and so on. Although the sound was lush, the band members were few, and the arrangements were for songs of pop length, which could be reproduced easily on stage without the whole of Polyphonic Spree in tow.
The series of live videos with interviews (see link below) are perhaps a more accurate glimpse of what the band can do than the album itself. But this is not to say Borrowed Arms isn’t great, it’s just so clearly created on the white paper that neutral ‘space’ estate agents and gallery attendants are so fond of pointing their clipboards at. It’s as if the record can never be more than a brochure for the live performance. Perhaps chamber pop is faulty anyway in its attempt marry the incompatible — a bold sketch of a pop song and something consummately ‘finished’. Is it a fundamentally pointless exercise? Or is the genre like classical music — put down on record for convenience, while it’s taken for granted that most music buffs would rather go to their church, the concert hall.
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Despite all that’s been said though, 2 Foot Yard do transmit a rough and readiness, and even a kind of wartime bawdiness (see the provocative “Red-rag & Pink-flag”, based on E. E. Cummings’ poem) which appears to be born out of a life lived permanently on the road. Carla Kihlstedt is described on her myspace as “a wayward waif wandering the wide world, happily lost somewhere between the music conservatory, the arboretum, and the road house.” This excursion into fancy has the potential to be irritating, but it’s self deprecating enough to be endearing. In the Dutch interview, Carla seemed rueful about her tendency to end up with a band flanking her. I imagine her idea of normality must be pretty strange, but her talk of popping up in various projects as if she were a circus brat continually — but unsuccessfully trying to strike out on her own — seemed to make deliberate light of her prolific achievements. Anyway, what came across clearly was that the work of creating and recording music was more important to the members of 2 Foot Yard than where it originated.
Indeed there’s a touch of old fashioned socialism about the band, exemplified in the way they come on stage wearing workaday gear. Musicians, after all, must sweat a lot under those lights. 2 Foot Yard are old hands, ‘comrades’ skillful enough to make the best of any limitations imposed on them, even by themselves. They have the reliability of classically trained musicians and the rakishness of rock entertainers. Their accomplished album may not represent the full warmth of their live sound, but its influences (Klezmer and European Jazz) and its concerns (the restless heart, the cabaret bar, the sadness of settled life) record their trek through music, glamorous or world weary, and sometimes a bit of both.
