Tag Archives: jazz

Double Exposure

 

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Music, particularly jazz music, and photography have long enjoyed a healthy symbiotic relationship. Think of the evocative photographs of Herman Leonard, the bassist and snapper Milt Hinton or William Caxton, images of clubs, patrons and players so powerful you can almost smell the cigarette smoke, hear the splash of a cymbal, the tinkle of highball glasses.

The two art forms have something else in common – a powerful sense of their own history. Everyone who is serious about jazz studies the masters, be it the fiendishly mathematical complexity of Charlie Parker’s be-bop or the lyricism of Bill Evans’ piano. Photographers, too, are drawn back to the great practitioners of the art, the Robert Capas, Lee Millers and Bert Hardys, analyzing and sometimes imitating, until, like musicians, they find their own style.

I recently spoke to drum legend Billy Cobham, whose CV should just say “played with everyone who is anyone in jazz and beyond”, about his lifelong love of the photograph.

“I started shooting seriously in the army, back in ’64. That was my secondary military occupation, after drumming instructor. Then, when I left the army I never really stopped. I did my first album cover for Blue Note, for Horace’s Serenade to a Soul Sister in 1968.” Which meant he was following in the f-stops of Francis Wolff, another legend who shot many of the iconic Blue Note covers. “Absolutely I was. Big shoes to fill. I also did work with Count Basie and Gil Evans.”

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For many years Billy shot with a classic Leica M3, especially while on the road. “With the Mahavishnu Orchestra,” says Billy, “we were touring for two years solid. I’d always get up early the day of a show and I’d walk round town with my camera and I’d be alone. When you are in band doing that many gigs, you are with the guys 24/7 and you need some space. Going out with my Leica helped me gather my wits, my feelings, about how I felt about me that day.’ Not everyone in the band shared his commitment. “John McLaughlin, I think he just used a compact camera for snapshots, while I was there with my Leica with a 150-280mm zoom with all the bells and whistles and he’d look at me like I was out to lunch.”

I first saw Billy Cobham with that band, at an open-air concert at Crystal Palace Bowl. I had never heard or seen anything like it. The guy in white with the twin-necked guitar, he was good, but the drummer was something else. Finding out about him led me to Larry Coryell and then back to Miles Davis and beyond. Billy Cobham sparked my interest in jazz. “So it’s my fault?” he laughs when I tell him this. I also followed his post-Mahavishnu work, including the seminal Spectrum album and his later bands, which sometimes included a young trumpeter from the UK called Guy Barker.

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Billy still takes plenty of photographs, but these days he has embraced pixels. “I made the switch four or five years ago. I’ve retired my M3 and shoot with an M8 or, especially for documentaries like my recent Art of the Rhythm Section Retreat in Arizona, an S Typ 007. Everything I used to do in the darkroom, I can do in the camera now. And I don’t feel like I’ve been sniffing airplane glue for five hours.”

He thinks that photography has a way of enhancing his music . “For me, taking a photograph is like capturing an instant in my life, like a single “cel” in an animation, a frozen moment of my time of this earth. What it also does, it takes my primary mind away from what I am always thinking musically, and gives that part of my brain a rest for a minute while I do something visual. I’m still being creative, but in a different way. Then, when I come back to the music, it has more meaning.”

Billy wouldn’t be drawn on a favourite image, not even given a this-is-the-one-I’d-save-from-a-burning-house challenge. “I’m still exploring,” he insists. Which is true of his music, as you can experience when Billy plays Ronnie Scott’s with the Guy Barker Big Band  from June 25-30th (www.ronniescotts.co.uk).

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From last time at the club… but much the same killer band

I have worked with Guy on the narrative of some of his large-scale compositions and Billy and the Big Band will probably play Guy’s brilliant arrangement of Stratus from the Spectrum album. You’ll recognise the dynamite drum motif, because it was sampled for Massive Attack’s Safe From Harm, which became the title of a novel I co-wrote (as R J Bailey). How many degrees of separation is that?

 

 

BELGIAN INTERLUDE

Berlin InterRail will be along shortly; meanwhile, here is some music….

There was a moment during Melanie de Biasio’s performance at the Purcell Room on the Southbank the other night when, as a fan of light framed her uplifted face, I felt as if I was watching Ingrid Bergman playing Joan of Arc re-incarnated with the voice of Abbey Lincoln fronting a Belgian version of The Necks.

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Certainly anyone who popped along because of the tag ‘the Belgian Billie Holiday’ that she is often saddled with was in for a surprise. This was strange fruit all right, a cross pollination of jazz, blues, trip-hop, post-rock and late Talk Talk and it certainly wasn’t a singer showing off her chops with a succession of torch songs or standards. If anything, she used the power of her spine-tingly voice too sparingly, often simply breathing out phrases or single words to wrap around the repetitive, sometimes languorous patterns created by a band consisting of piano, keyboards (clavinet, synths) and drums. But that meant when she did let rip, it counted, and hairs stood up on necks.
In a short, intense, one-hour set she played most of new (also short) album No Deal (Play it Again Sam records) with parts of A Stomach Is Burning, her less minimal debut from a couple of years ago. It was effectively one single, stripped-down sixty-minute song, building to the wonderful I’m Gonna Leave You. The two keyboards players added mostly texture and a skeletal framework for the tunes – no long noodly jazz solos here – while drummer Dre Pallemaerts ably supplied the rhythmic heft (and the singer added smoky stabs of flute). It was an unsettling – on a good way – monochrome show, a little like the drawings that come with the album, and was brilliantly lit, creating a close, clubby atmosphere in the sometimes sterile Purcell Room.
It’s all too rare to come away from a gig thinking: well, I haven’t seen anything like that recently, but Melanie De Biasio (who is highly rated by Jamie Cullum and Gilles Peterson) will leave you scratching your head and producing weird combos of artists to explain her to those who don’t yet know her sound. Although possibly none as odd as Joan of Arc.
http://www.melaniedebiasio.

Kyle Eastwood: New York, Paris and Ken Clarke

The latest issue of Man About Town features a piece by me about Kyle Eastwood, Clint’s bass-playing son, which includes a look at the history of jazz on Manhattan, as well as a recommended list of ‘Live in NYC’ jazz albums. Also what happened when Ken Clarke turned up to see Kyle play at Ronnie Scott’s. Plus a lovely illustration by Liselotte Watkins.
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And you get James McVoy:

mat2See http://www.manabouttown.tv.

A Few Thoughts On @lovesupremefest

There was some carping that Chic didn’t belong on the bill at the Love Supreme Festival last weekend. A disco band at a jazz festival? Yet, both Nile Rodgers and his late partner, Bernard Edwards, came from a jazz background, as Niles demonstrated with some Wes Montgomery-style noodling while getting the sound right. Furthermore, it’s hard to tell how many of the 7,500 a day tickets he and his Daft Punk/Glastonbury connection added but, along with an accurate forecast for glorious weather, it must have been significant.

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Certainly, the very youthful faces in Chic’s crowd (who could just about place Let’s Dance as a Bowie record) weren’t there because of Chic’s heyday, but they were a welcome dilution of the usual jazz demographic. Poor Portico Quartet suffered in the nearby Arena, being swamped by the tsunami of slap bass and sing-alongs, Brass Jaw were equally outgunned by an exuberant Soweto Kinch, although they later gave an nicely impromptu al fresco blow to make up for it. Next year (we are promised at least three Love Supremes), the proximity of the Arena to the main stage needs to be looked at. As does the car parking – some marker boards so you can locate your vehicle in the middle of a field in the dark would help. But, a few gripes apart – is there any way to prevent ridiculously lengthy peak-time beer queues at a festival? – ALS was a very creditable inaugural effort. One thing I liked was that it was small and comfortable enough that you could always get close enough to the stage to look the artists in the eye – so there was no need for the giant screens of larger gatherings. Plus there was fine music, with notable performances from Snarky Puppy – not so much snarky as rabidly good – Gregory Porter (below), whose star continues to shine brighter and brighter,

Porter1._JPG Go Go Penguin, Michael Kiwanuka, Terence Blanchard, Troyka and Neil Cowley (due to clashes/tennis/interviews I missed several acts, including Esperanza Spalding, who sounded in fine form, and Melody Gardot). John Fordham in his very fair Guardian review (www.guardian.co.uk/music/2013/jul/07/love-supreme-festival-review) didn’t seem to mind Bryan Ferry, but I thought, as accomplished as his Jazz Age band was at evoking the ‘20s/30s, it was all just plain weird, especially when his guitarist appeared to shred things up a little. Overall, though, A Love Supreme is well worth booking a slot for next year. Let’s hope the sun thinks so, too.

See also John L Walters’ opinion at http://bit.ly/10IBzIx .

For Those Listening To Radio 3 @ 7.30pm Tonight

These are the notes the audience at Snape will have as a guide to the piece’s structure. It is based on The Jolly Corner by Henry James, but is set on a Transatlantic ship, New York in the late ’40s and Soho present day. Spot the Benjamin Britten references (because there’s none in the music).

THAT OBSCURE HURT.

Music by Guy Barker.

PART ONE.  Prologue: An Atlantic Overture.

Early 1950s. The English musicians of Geraldo’s Navy arrive at the docks in awe at the size of their ship, the SS Lucretia. As they board the ship, the captain and the crew bark at the disorientated new hands, sending them this way and that, looking for their cabins, their instruments, their gig and then, as they set sail into rough seas, the newcomers try unsuccessfully to find their sea legs. Eventually, they locate their berths and settle into work and, over the sounds of the ocean, we hear the strains of the dance band and we find ourselves momentarily in the Verandah Ballroom before the skyline of Manhattan makes in appearance. The excited musicians drop their instruments and scuttle ashore. They take in the sights, sounds and throbbing energy of the city – exciting and intimidating in equal measure. They find themselves on 52nd St.

PART TWO. Prince At the Pagoda.

Early 1950s. The jazz club on 52nd St where the musicians listen in rapture to host Harry Prince as the band plays a roaring be-bop piece that incorporates passages from the solos of the great modern jazz maters of that era: Bud Powell, Fats Navarro and even a four-bar quote from Dizzy Gillespie’s “Ow”.

PART THREE. In Darkness.

Present Day. Spencer Bryden is watching CCTV from a remote location and sees the ‘ghost’ haunting his club (Gordie’s or AMJG) in Soho, London. An account of the encounter is read out by Jennifer Muldoon, an investigator into psychic phenomena.

PART FOUR. Opus 50/ A Time There Is

Present Day. Spencer, still reeling from the images he saw on the CCTV, visits the Soho jazz club (Gordie’s, above) he inherited from his father, which is in its final week of operation before its proposed sale.  Harry Prince Jr – the son of the man Spencer’s father saw in NYC all those years ago – sings a song about the passage of time.

PART FIVE. Powder Monkey.

1960s flashback. Harry Prince Jr, with a little help from Alice Staverton, the club manager, evokes the sounds of the club in its sixties heyday.

PART SIX. Notturno.

Spencer is alone in the club after hours, the room silent and deserted, the tables with empty glasses, the walls slick with 60 years of smoke and sweat and the echo of all the music that has been played and is about to disappear forever.

PART SEVEN. A Kind of Ghost.

Spencer becomes aware he is not alone. He glimpses a figure. He chases him backstage, terrified but determined to confront the spectre. But the ghost doesn’t want to be caught – it is elusive and playful, giggling, darting and dancing (in one instance to a tango) through the club, shredding Spencer’s already taut nerves, until, finally, an exhausted Spencer manages to corner the phantom. When he finally does confront the ‘ghost’, he realises he is looking at a different version of himself. This was the terrifying image he saw on the CCTV.  This is the man he would have been, had he not left London for exile. But this ghost is suffering – he has cancer, is constantly chewing nicotine gum to suppress the urge for the cigarettes that have killed him. He has come to warn Spencer. And enlighten him.

PART EIGHT. I Hid My Love.

Spencer reels yet again at the revelations from his other self (musically, the brass chorale in Opus 50 reappears, but this time played on the strings). The ghost departs and Spencer discovers cans of old film from the days when his father was alive. He plays the super-8 movies and sings a song about the love of his father (and Alice), and how he denied it. This piece is designed to echo ‘the sounds of the era of ‘The Great American Songbook’.

PART NINE. Alice’s Gift.

Alice finds Spencer passed out in the club. She wakes him. He reveals what the ghost told him- that Alice has paid off the gangsters who had been threatening him and that she has saved the club – if he wants to keep it, he can. Alice makes a speech explaining herself and finally declaring her love for Spencer. He realises he has been a fool – he can have the club, and Alice too. With thanks to Henry James and his friend Edith Wharton.

PART TEN. Floods of Noise.

The spirits of every musician who has ever played the club celebrates including a reprise of Powder Monkey.