Even an especially accommodating definition of what jazz is will not place its beginnings much before the first few years of the 20th century, and so this world of music, this hallowed tradition which constitutes an entire paradigm of musical practice, is barely one hundred years old.  Among many implications of this, one is that a single artist could participate in most of the history of jazz.  Many did; and those who were canonized as jazz greats did not merely influence the development of the art form with a notable recording or famous concert, but continued, on many occasions, to shape and refine the possibilities which jazz – and all music – could reach.  Born in 1917, 90 years ago this October, Thelonious Monk lived such a life within, parallel to, and constitutive of jazz as we know it today.
As an inversion of the history of European classical music, entire historical eras of jazz history make up mere periods of an artist’s style.  Because of this, a number of individuals like Monk held the power of changing the course of jazz history.  In some ways, it is remarkable that we have such a clear canon of great jazz artists, musicians who added such a distinctly creative element to jazz that everyone ‘afterwards’ understood jazz a little differently because of them.  The dust has barely settled on the 20th century and somehow we already know who is who.  Miles Davis, for example, was like the Pythagoras, Pope Gregory, Beethoven and Schoenberg of jazz, and weaved the decades of music together in a complex progression of music.  In contrast to a fairly straightforward lineage of composers through the eras of classical music, in jazz we find a complex progress of many simultaneous geniuses, who overlap and come together in groups and then go their own way again.  With Monk, too, we find a pivotal genius through which it is possible to understand jazz’s entire history.
.  But in many ways Monk is cleaner.  If we had to continue our classical music comparison, we will give him a single comparison and say Monk is the J.S. Bach of the jazz historical context.  What Bach did was unified the understanding of music before him into a style and concept of musical aesthetics which directed the next three hundred years of music.  His clarity brought the music of his past into the understanding of music of the future.  Though he did not make his strategies explicit, students of music return to him at every level to understand tonality, the possible relations among musical voices, and the boundaries of chromaticism.  We cannot credit Bach for the invention of major and minor tonalities and the other basic concepts of common practice theory.  We value him for showing us what was possible in the musical arena which history gave him and the rest of classical music.  Like Bach, we do not credit Monk for theoretically establishing the versatility of extended tertian harmony, or for creating an entire new technique of playing the piano.  The history of jazz presented Monk much of this: the style of stride piano, the practice of re-harmonizing popular songs, the established chord relations were where he found himself as he was developing his own concept of music.
For its youth, jazz cannot likewise be seen as proportionately smaller than classical music in importance.  It was a big hundred years.  In no sense metaphorically, Solo Monk is equal in significance to the collection of Bach’s chorals.  Both these collections, the pure articulation of these artist’s styles, establish music-theoretical aesthetics that escape – shall we say transcend? – their role as historical indexes.  They quiet the aesthetic relativism in us for a moment.  We think, against our postmodern condition: damn, this is fundamental.
The paradox with Monk’s music is that while he was playing within a new sense of harmony, and hence establishing that harmony, his solos and comping are filled with seemingly archaic, “corny” harmonic material right along side what was entirely new conceptions of progressions.  Yet the jagged, assertive character of the articulations and phrasing unified it all into a forceful style.  For most musicians, playing with two almost inconsistent harmonic vocabularies would sound either ironic, or as though they didn’t know what they were doing in one or the other.  Monk, though, plays a simple G major chord in the same character as a G7b9#11.  There are no wrong notes here, because each note, each passage, arises out of a decisive physical gesture of musical creation.  Unlike Bach, the harmonic context Monk established doesn’t matter in respect to what he played – it will catch up if it wants to.  For us, though, it is the only thing to hang on to.
For students of jazz, the piano keyboard is a map on which the history of harmony is understood, from Bach to Monk and beyond.  The context of what ‘works’ and what doesn’t is laid out in terms of interval relations and visual/kinesthetic patterns.  Music theory and eras of styles are situated there in terms of notes.  With Monk, the keyboard was not like this.  It was a place for events, physical gestures turned into music by a physical encounter of a person and an object.  While all
In music, we search for the right notes – because a composer told us to do so, because we heard them on a recording, because our elementary music teacher inculcated it thus.  Bach told us one way of making the right notes come out.  It involved, through intervallic relations, music which encompassed the entire keyboard.  Monk tells us another way of getting the right notes.  It begins with the keyboard, goes up and down it, then it travels out, floating above, into straight fingers, into the body, up walking around, an out of keyboard experience, then back to the single dimension of where the finger hits the keys.  How do you play like Monk?  Got me.  It’s extended tertian harmony, it’s un-extended triads; it’s what has taken the history of music out of the traumatic Modern rejection of harmony and kept things going.

“The First Emperor”By Tan Dun

World Premiere: Metropolitan Opera, New York, December 21, 2006

reviewed by, Aaron Hayes

Placido Domingo as Qin Shi Huang

Tan Dun’s recently premiered opera, The First Emperor, has not surprisingly been hailed as a masterful synthesis of Eastern and Western musical traditions. In fact, the story line itself takes up this theme, as the Emperof Chin searches for an “everlasting anthem” to unify the spirit of his new nation. When it comes to the work of Tan Dun, the theme of unity and East-West collaboration can be found around every corner. But East-West encounters these days often bring to mind mini Zen rock gardens and Confucius day calendars, and so the danger with this piece‚Äîas the composer recognized‚Äîis not so much the failure of unity, but the potential for the opera to fall into the shallow waters over which our regular supply of Kung-Fu movies and Oriental mysticism are shipped. Thankfully, this opera does succeed in escaping such na√Øve musical syncretism. But in order to accomplish this, the composer must use what at first seems like a sort of cheap method of organizing the music. Only in fulfilling this method can Tan Dun turn it into a brilliant work, which may revive the tradition of opera out of its modernistic slumbers.

Generally, Tan Dun’s compositional genius lies in his ability to distill powerful musical effects from many different traditions and organize them into genuinely new and fascinating works. The list of contributing styles of music does not merely arise from the composer’s roots in the folk music of the Hunan province and his Western compositional training. Rather, many different musical practices from around the world are taken into account by this composer. Taking instrumental sounds, compositional forms, and various ideas on melody and harmony from these practices, Tan Dun finds exactly what is most notable in them and uses them for his own purposes. But these musical elements are never simply quoted from a familiar convention, nor are they taken completely out of context. Passages which may sound particularly influenced by some tradition or another are created to present only what is most powerful and essential in a certain rhythm, harmony, or instrument. This often leads to very new ways of hearing traditional sounds. Tan Dun does not so much compose with notes as he does musical effects.

In itself, this technique is dangerous, since it is very similar to composing movie music, which is created with the goal of evoking certain emotional responses without regard to musical significance. But unlike a movie score, with all the bad guy cues and love scenes, the musical conventions which constitute this opera and much of Tan Dun’s music come from such a diverse background that their musical juxtaposition allows for entirely different meaning and depth. Taken alone, any moment in this opera could be understood in terms of other past musical traditions. This is why, despite the Tan Dun’s efforts, he is often considered a post-modern composer. Many of the traditional Chinese instruments give certain passages a clearly ‘Oriental’ sound, as do the pentatonic melodic lines and un-translated (in language and style) Peking Opera introduction and interludes. Even the use of sound mass and indeterminate pitch can be understood in terms of their 20th century Western compositional development. And it is, of course, an opera, whose scope and style picks up where the 19th century left off. Even if some point in the music cannot be traced to a clear predecessor, it reminds us somewhat of this or that composer or folk tradition.

An opera which combines East and West is not a novel concept; by at least the mid 19th century, composers had figured out that rotated pentatonic scales are to western tonality as soy sauce is to rice. Asia has long been a source of exoticism, and there are many icons which could easily be incorporated into an otherwise western piece in order to make it ‘Oriental’ sounding. In order to escape this, Tan Dun has mastered the very technique which traditionally is used to present those Asian elements to Western ears. His act of incorporating exotic sounds into the opera makes all of the opera exotic. There is no familiar territory to which we can return.

One way Tan Dun accomplishes this is through the compositional precision of the entire piece. His attention to detail at every moment creates music which is consistent in its quality throughout every passage. In many of the string parts for example, the violins and cellos momentarily take on the sound of traditional Chinese instruments, even as their counterparts sit next to them in the pit. Because the instructions for performing are very accurate, especially in the manner of articulation, (though probably not as much as in his Out of Peking Opera and The Intercourse of Fire and Water) the subtlety and originality is not hidden behind the seeming familiarity of ‘Oriental’ sounds. Tan Dun’s attention to articulation rescues the Chinese influenced string writing from the ill fate of exoticism. The composer makes equal all those traditions from which he takes influence. But this step toward equality cannot be accomplished by making the exotic familiar. This would merely be the emotional colonialism of Broadway and Disney. Instead, by composing with these discreet affects, the composer is able to change their meaning to something more appropriately alien, and thereby bring us somewhere else than our tired musical consumption generally takes us.

This can be most clearly heard in many of the arias of this opera. In one respect, the lyrical qualities of the lines hearken back to the Italian operas which defined the tradition in Europe. Yet much of the harmonic context is defined by folk traditions which have fairly straightforward tonalities, though ones which do not lie easily in an unfamiliar ear. One result of this is that the melodic line often uses much larger intervals than might be heard in a European opera. But these larger intervals, combined with Tan Dun’s colder harmonic vocabulary result in musical lines interestingly reminiscent of Webern’s atonal songs. This sort of writing is what gives the opera its modern quality while avoiding the overuse of twentieth century avant-garde convention. In a similar manner, what often sounds like Expressionist Sprechtstimme is just as notably a result of the Chinese influence on the flow of language. Tan Dun takes into account the denotative qualities of voice inflection which have much more dramatically influenced the musical traditions in Asia. Along with fellow Chinese born composer Chen Yi, Tan Dun has successfully applied the indeterminate flow of Chinese to European musical lines sung in the English language. The result is not quite Schoenberg, but not quite the traditional Chinese folk song. The new context has refined these various musical sounds into their most basic meaning, their sonic effect. For this reason, even the tonal moments should not be considered in themselves as some functional harmony. Instead, moments of relative pleasure must be thought of in relation to the unsettling moments of indeterminate pitch or unfamiliar and jarring instrumental timbre. The entire piece is formed by the combination and relation of the somewhat discreet and contrasting use of sonic events, each of which you may feel as having heard somewhere before.

By the way, The First Emperor only runs at the Met until the end of January. A comparably grandiose production at the level of the Metropolitan Opera may not come around for some time. However, this piece is likely to become a classic of early twenty first century music, if not for its sheer quality then at least for the audacity of writing such a large scale work so closely attuned to the Operatic tradition of the West. For those who are into dramatic pyrotechnics and gigantic productions, then of course this opera is notable. The danger lies in this sort of quality, however. Because there are very consonant moments, and the drama is captivating, and we are perhaps gratified in some strange neo-colonial way with the extent of the Chinese quality to it, this opera is in danger of being appreciated for the wrong reasons. Indeed, there is ’something for everyone.’ Only when each moment instills the right amount of mutual alienation can The First Emperor as a whole fulfill for us its potential as an original and powerful work.

“Sound Grammar”
Ornette Coleman

The irony of Ornette Coleman’s music, as with any relatively avant-garde style, is that it can no longer be considered ‘new.’ A number of decades have past since improvisation left the bounds of tonal progression and strict form. Yet the person on the street (well, depends on which street you live on) would still consider Coleman to be ‘on the edge.’ Not that ‘free jazz’ has any clear definition, though if I had to teach some of my 14 year old students what people mean by free jazz, his new Sound Grammar might serve as one of my examples, and it might be an example some of them would appreciate. This album stands in a puzzling moment, both as the product of the front guard and as an opus in a murky tradition of heavily improvisational jazz we can tentatively call ‘free,’ and so it is hard for us to know what to expect from it. What criteria shall it meet? While this is a great recording, it would not be honest to say that it is groundbreaking in any way, or that it pushes things in the same manner that this saxophonist has pushed things in the past. In fact, in many ways it steps back in time, so to speak, a filling out of what has gone before.

Still, the fact that this music remains paradoxically ‘classic’ avant-garde jazz in no way brings any unity to the musical sounds brought together in this recording. Perhaps so as to annoy the dictionary-minded, but more likely as a fulfillment of Coleman’s aesthetic, this album has such a wide variety of styles it plays through that it resists even to be called ‘free’ as if this were clear in itself. The first track, “Jordan,” begins with some well-executed grand pauses which no doubt required some thinking through and rehearsing ‚Äì thus so much for the ‘lack of structure’ part of the definition. In “Matador,” the head consists of a light Latin dance motive with a very clear tonal center. Even as it avoids satisfactory definition (every musician’s dream) from a stylistic point of view, the unique ensemble and the interactions among the performers gives it the coherence to be placed within the interesting history of recent jazz.

Sound Grammar is a well-edited recording of a 2005 concert held in Ludwigshafen, Germany, performed by a quartet made up of Coleman (pulling out his trumpet and violin for us at times), his son Denardo Coleman on drums, and two acoustic bassists, Tony Falanga and Greg Cohen. “Sound Grammar” is also the name of the recording label which Coleman organized, and, it seems, a general statement of Coleman’s philosophy/methodology of music. While most of the charts on the disk are new, a couple of his older ones have been pulled out for the occasion. Peruse \anchor(href=”http://www.ornettecoleman.com”){www.ornettecoleman.com} for more details.

In contrast to most of the somewhat mundane jazz recordings which come out nowadays, \work{Sound Grammar} is well deserving of its Grammy nomination. The work is refreshing, not in its novelty so much as in its musical achievement. It is a quartet of amazing musicians who find some great moments and play very well together. With that said, there is still something lacking in this concert. It has nothing to do with finding something new to accomplish, or with the quality of the charts and the solos, or the compositional efforts. Instead, the music loses its depth at times, leaving us with just normal Night Club sounding lines. Maybe this is unfair, but we expect from the greats like Coleman a certain deepening as time goes on. It is not satisfying to listen to what was new and exciting in the 20th century, merely for the sake of modernity. Many of the solos on this album could have just as well appeared in the 1980’s (certainly, a few of the charts in fact did: see his 1985 “Song X”). In “Call to Duty” especially, Coleman’s playing makes us ask if he is really pushing his own envelope enough ‚Äì again, not in terms of newness and excitement, but in terms of the depth which we might expect at this later moment of his career. To be sure, he answers with a great deal of depth at times; there are many passages of truly profound music. Yet these serve, in some regard, only to give contrast to times when the music does not reach to that deeper level.

Another real weakness in the album is the box it comes in. Normally, we could skip over this aspect, but one bit of it is a little concerning. The recording is packaged in a somewhat trite collection of thoughts and words concerning language. ‘A’ for effort, I suppose. But people have for some time now thought about the nature of music and its universal, language-like characteristics. Insofar as I understand the theme, Coleman is attempting to present in the music an element of accessibility which arises from music’s widely shared grammar-like organization. From time to time, the music seems like it is attempting to consciously address this issue. “Sleep Talking” begins with the basses playing open, meditative, clearly Asian-influenced music. Coupled with the background thoughts of the liner notes, this chart’s meditative opening makes me think, “Everybody in the world plays music which people from other cultures can appreciate, so it must be the universal language. Hurray!” Granted, there is much to be said on this issue ‚Äì and for the record “Sleep Talking” has much to offer in incredible music. Still, the momentary hints toward the theme of “grammar” are a little out of taste. The thematization is a mockery of what Coleman has no doubt thought much about, thoughts that have more depth than is presented here. Most of the music is not directly affected by the philosophical babbling on the jacket, however. And so we need not take this too seriously, except in those parts of the music when it is addressed, for its own loss.

But these are small criticisms, and they are criticisms which are perhaps inevitable when it comes to the contemporary consumption and production of jazz. Inherent in the jazz recording is the formaldehyde-like smell of preserving something which seems to want never to be heard again. Was every note meant to stand up to all these historical comparisons with Coleman’s past career? Would it survive without some intellectual theme to unify it? No doubt this would have been an amazing performance to have experienced. Live is really the only way to properly feel the depth of this sort of improvisation. Of course, we all appreciate that jazz has been recorded for most of its explicit history. But the music on \work{Sound Grammar}, if any jazz does this, sort of groans as it is resurrected each time I turn it on. If this music had its way, only those sitting in the audience that night would have experienced its sounds, its explosions of musical energy set off by the interactions among the players. In this sense, I do not hear Coleman’s lack of depth so much as the fatigue of a musical moment which knows it will never be given its proper rest. And, all those musico-linguistic reflections just serve to universalize the meaning of the music so as to make it look like some timeless classic, justifying the preservationist cardboard surrounding the plastic compact disk.

The music, however, understands its fate. The solos take up their historical roles, to be transcribed by students, critiqued by critics, and compared historically to what came before and what will come. The pieces, as musical unities, look back to the past few years of jazz and fill them out with a few more charts to be added to the canon, a few more exemplary solos, and a few new ideas which will be copied, worked with and integrated into the music of those who follow. In this spirit, a few particulars should be pointed out.

The most creative element worth a general note is the use of both Gregory Cohen and Tony Falanga on bass. If you did not notice the liner notes showing this unique doubling beforehand, and if you did not catch this group play over the last couple years, by the middle of the first chart, “Jordan,” you had to look. To be honest, I did not study the notes on my first listen through, and was unable to immediately name what I heard. I thought, momentarily, suspending my education in music, that Coleman was playing the saxophone and the violin at the same time. Could he do that? As the bass line continued walking below, something else was creeping up into the upper atmosphere of the chart. Only when it became so contrapuntally complicated that it had to be two performers, did I, coming to my senses, conclude it was another voice. I had to look to find out what the sounds were coming from, though. “Turnaround” especially contains extensive dialogue between saxophone and crazy-bass, although really throughout the album, the group maximized the textural and melodic possibilities which became available in this ensemble.

Surprising in this recording is the beauty of the lyricism found in many of the slower charts. Having melodic material which is somewhat soothing or subdued, with sharply contrasting sections of more caustic material seems to be a trend with some recent artists. It is not so much that jazz has mellowed out after its Coltrane withdrawals. More than that, Coleman has been able to develop that very subtle dimension in music, the interesting combination of tone color, melody, and harmony which define a number of micro-styles within a single improvisation. The solos change moods in a minute what classical music took 100 years to accomplish, and back again. “Sleep Talking,” “Waiting for You,” and “Once Only” are compositions which find a new and much needed balance between ‘pleasant’ sounding, consonant material (lines probably very accessible to those not quite fully appreciative of this area of music) on one hand, and on the other, the very pressing and stressful tonalities, tone color, and rhythmic variation which marks Coleman’s sound. “Once Only” captures well the notion of balance, playing the very fast bass line under the slow melodic duet of bass and saxophone.

Sound Grammar contains some great genius at play. The playground has not changed much, it seems, but those who remain inside have found some new games. No longer committed to the hard-edged sounds of the past century exclusively, Coleman opens up his palette now with this unique ensemble, and it was a good thing, in the end, that it was recorded.

“I seek to play pure emotion”
–Ornette Coleman

Ornette Coleman
Sound Grammar

With the record industry in a slump and jazz music progressively marginalized, few releases can claim to represent a true cultural event. Ornette Coleman’s new CD, Sound Grammar is precisely that, for at least three different reasons:

After a long career of daring epoch making music, finally the establishment has recognized Mr.Coleman’s stature. The CD was awarded the highest American cultural award, the Pulitzer Prize.
It is his the first recording in a decade, the first live one in 20 years. And it comes out on Mr.Coleman’s new label, a testament to his vitality at age 77, allowing us to anticipate more to come.
In the quest for definitions of his music,Mr.Coleman introduces the concept of sound grammar.

–Ornette, the communicator.

Insert Sound Grammar in your music device, and just let go. What you will get is an astonishing mix of ideas, lyricism, excitement and sheer beauty. The freshness and assertiveness of Mr.Coleman sound speaks both to those who have followed his career for the last fifty years and to people listening for the first time. Call it jazz if you wish, yet this music, encompasses and transcends many musical traditions: it is a soundtrack for our age.
“Sound Grammar is to music what letters are to language. Music is a language of sounds that transforms all human languages,” writes Mr.Coleman. The man who revolutionizing jazz, extracting from his instrument “ghost notes” imitators are still baffled by, composed for symphony orchestras, and made excursions into traditional Moroccan music, today is aiming at a universal sound. This CD might sound at times more accessible than previous recordings without losing any of their intricate beauty. Rather Mr.Coleman has distilled his harmonic and rhythmic richness to the point of making it appear deceptively simple. –Ornette, the innovator.

The CD captures a live concert which took place in Ludwigshafen, Germany in October 2005. It features a two bass quartet with Ornette Coleman on alto sax, violin and trumpet, his son Denardo on drums, Gregory Cohen (mostly plucking) and Tony Falanga (mostly bowing) on basses. Following a spoken introduction, the band performs eight original Coleman tunes including a version of “Turnaround” from the 1959 Tomorrow is the Question and “Sleep Talking” which mirrors “Sleep Talk” from the 1979 Of Human Feeling and the closing “Song X” from Mr.Coleman’s 1985 collaboration with Pat Metheny. – Ornette the creator of beauty.

Throughout the CD, the interplay between composition and interpreter, between the instrumentalists, and between tonal and rhythmic elements creates a vast landscape in which polished beauty arises from the rawest of emotions. At every junction the band seems to be breathing the same breath, becoming one. In Sleep Talking Mr.Coleman begins by quoting the opening of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring to then proceed on a tightrope of sparse notes set against the meandering dialogue of the two basses. The music flows seamlessly from revisited blues (”Turnaround” and “Once Only”) to unknown territories. The band dilates and contracts from solo to duo, trio and quartet with Coleman’s distinctive voice-like sax, introducing the themes. His trumpet can be heard in the rhythmically driven “Jordan” while his violin is highlighted in the ten and a half minute “Song X”.
As often with Coleman, this music does not sound like a point of arrival but rather like a new beginning.For the past half a century Mr.Coleman’s work has turned inside out musical conventions to the point that new words were needed to describe it. The critics, misunderstanding his early compositional style, labeled it free jazz. He subsequently came up with the term Harmelodics which is now morphed into Sound Grammar. –Ornette the theoretician.

The beauty of this music is its immediacy. One can simply follow the melodic lines that appear and disappear through the rhythmic warp and weft created by the drum and basses. It is music for the head and the soul, it speaks the unsayable. –Ornette, the iconoclast.

      Ace Gallery New York

      275 Hudson Street

      New York, N.Y. 10013

      Nov. 14, 2002-Feb. 1, 2003

      Hours: Tuesday - Saturday, 10am - 6pm

      212.255.5599

 On my first visit to David Hammons’ beautiful and mysterious exhibition, Concerto in Black and Blue, I found myself exploring, flashlight in hand, each and every room of the cavernous Ace Gallery where this much-talked about show is now on view. At that time, I found myself frustrated by the tiny flashlights the artist provides for visitors. The flashlights, which are in a bowl at the door as you enter the gallery space, are annoyingly difficult to keep illuminated. The toggle switch on the finger tipped-sized light is small and rough on the fingers. You have to press down on the light to keep it illuminated, and it keeps going on and off.

This problem was solved for me on my second visit by a pair of children, two boys, who came right up to me and offered to show me how to keep the light from cutting off. It seems, however, that to keep the flashlight permanently illuminated requires a child’s agility.

The basic content of this exhibition is by now widely known. Concerto consists of a darkened gallery space without objects, which the viewer enters through a pair of doors, blue flashlight in hand. The exhibition’s name appears to refer, at least in part, to the interaction between the tiny blue flashlight and the almost completely black space. What could be simpler? An empty space. Besides, as Peter Schjeldahl, in a profile of Hammons in the December 23 & 30 issue of The New Yorker reminds us, it’s been done before.

But has it? Charlie Parker used to call his variations of Tin Pan Alley melodies “satires.” And one way of looking at this exhibition is to consider its satirical aspects. One could think of it as a send-up on the notion of art as commodity, on the artist as peddler of goods. In this conception, what Hammons is doing in Concerto is calling into question - placing under erasure, as it were - the whole subjugation of ideas, and aesthetic ideas in particular, to the art world’s need for art as thing-to-sell.

However, such thinking about this exhibition, as productive as it might be, tends to limit our understanding of - yes, I’ll dare to use this word here - the grandeur of what this artist has given us. Hammons offers us here an opportunity to participate in a practice which the best art affords, a practice which is given here in a form whose metaphors are worn lightly and can be treated with whatever gravity the viewer desires. It is a practice, which, by eschewing art as commodity, reminds us that art, at its best, is about beauty, and contemplation, which often means that it is about nothing at all. Here the artist allows us to consider beauty and contemplation through the use of the most basic elements: light and color. Concerto in Black and Blue gives us these basic elements through the use of the simplest tools (the flashlight, the unlit space devoid of objects), while at the same time allowing us to engage in an ancient ritual. One prompt for this line of thinking is the timing of this show, coming, as it does, during the time of year when many people think about ancient rituals associated with religious practices.

Hammons seems to allude to this, by placing the flashlights in a well at the entrance to the gallery, forcing the viewer to dip his or her hand into the well for the light. The flashlight is rough to the touch, and the association with sacrificial pain is, perhaps, hard to avoid. The gallery without objects is reminiscent of a temple, something on the order of a grand cathedral or other space meant for contemplation. One could make too much of the religious allusions suggested by this work; after all, this is an art exhibition, and no deity, not even that of art, is the object of the viewer’s engagement with this show. Nevertheless, if you walk through each and every room of this exhibition, as I did, you might allow yourself to surrender to an experience where time and space are suspended. If you are in the gallery alone, your engagement can be with contours of light, shadow, and surface. As you wander through each room, exploring the corners, the ceilings, the darkened skylight, the concrete floors, you might find yourself in a state of what the Zen practitioners call mindfulness. If you are not alone in the gallery, then the effect is multiplied. Each flashlight held by each visitor becomes a pinpoint in the darkness, suggesting the contradiction arising from the fact that even within community we each are fundamentally alone; that, as W.H. Auden puts it, each heart “Craves what it cannot have, /Not universal love/But to be loved alone.” But however you engage this show, there is, in essence, nothing to think about while you’re inside the gallery. Whatever thoughts one has about the “meaning” of this exhibition are those we bring to it ourselves. They are thoughts we have as we remember the experience. Much like this review, these thoughts may be suggested by the experience of the exhibition, but they are in no way determined by that experience. While we are inside the gallery space, there is “nothing.” There are no objects, at any rate, to “see.”

So when you walk into the gallery, flashlight in hand, what do you see? It would be unfair to say that you see nothing. There is, first of all, the blue light on the (presumably) white walls. But even this is a cause of some doubt. The light, of course, is blue. But it doesn’t reveal a white wall. The light, on the wall, is a bluish white. It is, in a phrase, kind of blue.

I’ve chosen this phrase deliberately, fully aware that some might find its allusion obvious and corny. But bear with me. It seems that the artist himself is suggesting two nearly mythic icons of African American culture here, the music recalled by the exhibition’s title, and the music suggested by the light and color Hammons helps us bring to the gallery space. However, there’s more at stake here than a simplistic reference to “What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue,” the 1929 song by Andy Razaf, and to  Kind of Blue (1959), the most famous work recorded by Miles Davis. Black and blue are highly charged colors in the cosmology of African American culture and historical experience. Night’s blackness holds a unique suggestion of terror in black American history. One is also reminded that the ancestors of many families escaped slavery under the cover of darkness, in the blue-black night. There is a sense, then, in which the entire history of Africans in North America can be told through reference to these two colors. In addition, there is the sense in which these two colors can be seen as metaphors for the impact the peoples of African ancestry who reside in North America have had on the world at large. The blues is, after all, the twentieth century’s paradigmatic art form. It is the first universal art form in world history. Everyone in the world sings the blues, and every culture incorporates elements of African American blues music into its own music when it wants to remake its songs into a recognizably contemporary musical expression. Concerto in Black and Blue reminds us of these facts, by its suggestion of the universality of African American cultural expression, especially as that expression is bound up with the contemplation of the colors black and blue.

      “Conduction #130″

      ‘Bertolt’ by Butch Morris with the Jump Arts Orchestra

      The Brecht Forum

      122 West 27th Street

      10th floor

      New York, New York

Though it is probably necessary, and even logical, that music must undergo periods of stylistic refinement that often come at the price of innovation, any passionate musician, or fan of music, cannot forget that those (these) periods of creative dormancy should best be understood as temporary cultural rests that serve as useful incubation periods for the exploration and evolution of new musical forms and idioms. Without denying that many contemporary musicians and composers have been invaluable in preserving their musical cultures, there have probably been too many who have simply remained comfortably and confidently within the limited tastes of genre, effectively refusing to see existing musical frameworks as the broad palates that they can be in the hands of the more courageous. Now, this would not be as significant a problem if our society could rightly be understood in terms of the cultural compartmentalization that mass media offers as a realistic representation of a civilization’s development. It cannot. For anyone who can conceive of an art that serves as the tribal representation of a culture, and not just as a curiosity to be sold and considered only as product, it is necessary that art consistently evolve to meet, challenge, represent, and define tile society that produces it. If it is true that in the blind consumption of media dictated style we are providing full evidence of our human and cultural nature, then perhaps a wide-spread discussion of the creative impulse is disingenuous, but again it remains the imperative of every conscionable artist to ensure that art is not handled so roughly, or that its influence is not degraded so meanly.

When one speaks of (or through) a particular genre, a set of stylistic generalities is already drawn in the mind of the listener. These include expected melodic patterns, and the related harmonies and resolutions, as well as elements as diverse as conventional rhythm patterns and certain emotional themes that are often expressed through a particular musical idiom. While it is true that certain basic musical devices can be aesthetically effective, and also allow for an easy superficial accessibility, the effectiveness of music as a communicative, evolving vocabulary can be seriously undermined if musicians aim only to reproduce the work of their predecessors. This affect can often be seen in the work of interpretive musicians, composers, and conductors. After a piece has been firmly established in the interpretive tradition it can take on the aspect of parody and cheap sentimentality. At the same time, a music born of complete improvisation can sometimes lack the communicative integrity of music that speaks with a logical vocabulary. In either case, although the product can often be quite good, many listeners are left with the feeling that something is missing, that some fundamental creative impulse is lacking.

So, if music is to remain culturally relevant, or if it is to regain legitimate relevancy at a time when trends serve as gospel, and trends are disposable, and history is forgotten, it must evolve beyond the stylistic, and therefore technical, limitations and traditions that serve the process of automatic and autocratic branding. To meet the challenge of musical-artistic development and to expand and explore the full potential of music as a cultural language, Lawrence D.”Butch” Morris has created a new vocabulary that will reclaim the poetry of sound. Known around the world as Conduction, this vocabulary grows from history’s collective musical tradition, highlighting connections that establish a sense of timelessness in the work undertaken and ensuring relevancy in both the past and the future, while still remaining faithful to the conditions of the particular place and time that necessitated the birth of this new idiom. Born of the classical and jazz traditions, Conduction (conducted improvisation/interpretation) takes music beyond these, or any other, limitations of genre and evolves the possibilities of both interpreted and improvised music.

In order to draw musical traditions together, when they have often been presented and marketed as distinct and sometimes incompatible entities, the most basic need is for everyone involved to expand their understandings of the ways that we, as humans and as participants in history’s musical dialogue, understand information and integrate meaning. To take the dynamic essence of jazz, its”swing,” and integrate it into the art of orchestral composition, conduction, and performance, is to automatically expand the notion of what music can accomplish. Indeed, Conduction was born out of Mr. Morris’ need to direct, and not just conduct, an ensemble performance in real time, with the idea that, if such a possibility could be realized, each scored piece could be played in a way that reflects the energies relevant to each interpretive performance. Motifs could be extended, themes amplified, ultimately giving the conductor greater control over the interpretation of his composition. Eventually, Mr. Morris began exploring the potential of pieces that were shaped by the Conduction process, without the use of notation, allowing him to use his interpretive commands to direct improvisation, building a theoretical bridge between the two traditions. Conduction, was born, and then developed, in the search for a realization of the full potential of dynamic communication in music.

Now, this search cannot be rightly understood in terms of a self-indulgent experiment, for any number of reasons. One of the fundamental facts of existence must be understood as the need for interaction, and Conduction is rooted deeply in the ideal of a personal and collective exploration undertaken for the sake of those who envision a world of interaction and involvement that goes beyond social compartmentalization toward a more meaningful and dynamic expression. Just as significantly, Conduction is not an experiment at all, because Mr. Morris has conceived it in such a way that it is intimately connected to the exploration of freedom and potential; where experimentation concerns itself with what might happen, the motivating force behind Conduction is the desire to know what can happen, what can be accomplished to further the cause of human understanding.

I - Of course, as Mr. Morris admits, many people will not go anywhere if they do not know exactly where it is that they are going. That is natural, since there are always those who will choose to stay behind while others go ahead to explore. What is most important, though, is that those who do participate in Conduction realize that the experience really is the sum of what each person contributes, taken together with the collective experience. Of course, Mr. Morris is the person responsible for shaping the event, for providing the framework within which the individual musician explores his ideas in the context of the orchestral group. He is not only the conductor of groups working within the context of Conduction, but as the architect of the vocabulary, he also assumes the roles of theorist and educator. His role in any given performance cannot be underestimated if one is to understand the nature of the music. This is not”free jazz” created by an ensemble of self-directed individuals, although the free-jazz movement is an obvious antecedent to the work that Mr. Morris is accomplishing, precisely because of his role in guiding the direction of the music. Using a conducting vocabulary consisting of hand signals and baton commands, he is able to instruct the band in the application of melody, harmony, rhythm, and dynamics, effectively allowing him to compose and conduct an improvised ensemble piece in real time. The effect is amazing.

At the Brecht Forum on December 15, Mr. Morris led the Jump Arts Orchestra in the performance of”Conduction #1 30, Bertolt,” an often swirling, atmospheric piece that maintained consistent rhythmic themes while appropriately using every member of the fifteen piece ensemble. The most visually arresting element of the show is the attention that the band pays him. From the moment his name was announced, every eye in the ensemble was focused clearly on the maestro, and every musician had to be ready to play on a moment’s notice, or less, at all times. That is part of the technical nature of Conduction, since every musician must be ready to contribute exactly what the music needs at exactly\the time that it is needed. Having worked with Mr. Morris before, and therefore having an understanding of the Conduction vocabulary, the Jump Arts Orchestra was more than capable, and excelled even during the most difficult passages.

The Conduction began with the rising movement of an ensemble-wide sonic atmosphere, against which Mr. Morris set a sequence of falling strings. Subtly at first, thematic movements emerged from the descending strings, punctuated by dramatic sweeps of panned sound, the violin themes taking on new meaning when set against the agile movements of the ensemble. It takes very little time to understand how completely the group can function as a living organism, especially as Mr. Morris draws sections of the orchestra together into thematic units, only to then divide them and coax subtle variations from the musicians. Working with no notation at this show, it was remarkable how well the musicians were able to respond to Mr. Morris when he asked for more melodic and thematic development; to look at him revealed that he seemed to be painting the harmonies with his baton, upon the canvas of sound created by the Orchestra.

Mr. Morris is surely a master at keeping his Conductions moving in challenging and unexpected directions, as when the entire Orchestra, except for the strings, stopped playing quite suddenly, revealing that underneath the dominating swell of the ensemble, the string section had been bowing vigorously. It is both a testament to the attention of his musicians and to his aesthetic and spiritual sense that Mr. Morris is able to bury sounds beneath dense layers, only to instantly reverse the contrast, revealing what had been obscured, and softening what had been most powerful. Using the string’s continued furious bowing as a foundation, Mr. Morris again drew the ensemble into a swirling, repetitive motion of sound that created an increasingly intense sonic atmosphere. Punctuating furious cello bowing with a series of staccato orchestral bursts, one of the evening’s most dramatic moments came as a series climaxes and rising tension alternated with sudden contractions, so that at the end of the first movement, the energy in the audience was heightened and carefully tuned to the performance at hand.

The next two sections were shorter than the first, but each was carefully focused. Following the dramatic conclusion of the first movement, Mr. Morris led the group through a series of technical executions that involved sharp breaks, sudden changes of direction, and some very attentive percussion work. The third section was characterized by a Harmo-Muted trumpet singing thoughtful blues passages against a walking bass line, providing a wonderfully emotive passage. In keeping with one of the night’s themes, this sensitive interplay between the two instruments was punctuated by the full orchestra driving sudden, powerful, and rapid bursts of true jazz improvisation-it was the climax to a performance that left the audience energized, with its collective attention surely heightened by the dramatic proceedings. Both the band and Mr. Morris were equally comfortable following the music into nearly any stylistic territory, from classical to jazz to blues to experimental, though the nature of the performance, taken as a whole, belonged to no category-indeed, it was a performance of pure music: serious, thoughtful, exciting, and interesting, and the passion with which the creation occurred transcended nearly every conceivable limitation.

This is an exciting time to see Butch Morris. As he crystallizes his Skyscraper band, which has chapters from Istanbul to Tokyo to New York City, and continues to work with bands like the Jump Arts Orchestra, Mr. Morris is tirelessly exploring the possibilities of Conduction, and thereby furthering any conception of what music can do. By promoting a sound that is not confined by the expectations attendant upon genre or by stylistic limitations, he is significantly expanding our musical understanding through his challenging and insightful use of his Conduction vocabulary. As a teacher, conductor, and spontaneous composer, Butch Morris makes a challenging music that serves as an invitation to look beyond limitations and participate fully in a dynamic, creative process.

For more information on Butch Morris, or on Conduction, please visit: www.conduction.us