Setting the tone
A little jazz, a bit of poetry, and the silver linings in missed opportunities
I have been thinking about doing this for months. The main thing I miss about my previous career in journalism is having a forum readily available when I had something to say that requires more than a pithy sentence or two to convey. I frequently jot down a paragraph here or there about something that would merit a bit more thought, but in the absence of medium through which to share it, I usually let it go.
I relish the opportunity to go deeper on something, to dive in and explore a song or a book or an idea. I enjoy going back to look at things I have written to see if they hold up, or if the expanded context of life lived offers a new perspective. I love finding serendipitous coincidences, the unintentional dialogue between works of art. If the notes I have been keeping since the beginning of the year are any indication, that's what you will find here week to week.
The "fish or cut bait" moment for me was a sad one, the passing of legendary jazz pianist Ahmad Jamal at age 92 on April 9. I had originally thought I might write about a different song each week, something that caught my ear that I wanted to share. The first one that did when I first had the idea to start this was a Jamal performance. Disappointed that I wasn't on the ball enough to offer this while he was still alive, I'll do the next best thing: to share it during a week when, if you're paying a bit of attention, you can learn plenty about this quiet jazz giant. Try Downbeat, the New Yorker or the New York Times to start.
He was a unique performer, focusing almost exclusively on the piano trio. As Nate Chinen writes on his own Substack, The Gig, "Consider this: can you name a record where he appears as a member of someone else’s rhythm section?"
Stick around for an appreciation for one of the best books of poetry I have read in a long time, and a note about how sometimes missing what you sought can have its own rewards.
Ahmad Jamal - "Minor Adjustments"
On "Minor Adjustments," a track on the newly issued Emerald City Nights - Live at the Penthouse 1963-64, Ahmad Jamal begins alone, playing something that sounds a bit like a Beethoven or Mozart piano sonata, his right hand teasing out a nimble melody, followed by the left hand playing single notes in counterpoint. Ten seconds in, bassist Richard Evans underpins the melody with a pulse, followed ten seconds later by drummer Chuck Lampkin's insistent cymbal. By the half-minute mark, all three have broken into a righteously swing, only to have everything fall back one more time as Jamal revisits those opening bars. This push-pull continues a couple more times until the swing seems to overtake the trio, Lampkin and Evans seeming to lift Jamal to a height from which falls cascades of notes that pile up in orderly fashion before being swept aside to make way for the next wave.
It's one of the best things I've heard in a young year that has been full of wonderful new music, all the more remarkable for something recorded 60 years ago. The new set is pulled from tapes made at the Penthouse, a Seattle jazz club that has yielded a handful of top-notch releases in the past few years. There are two Emerald City Nights releases; the second covers 1965 and 1966. Both are stunning, a timely reminder of Jamal's towering talent at the piano.
This track from the first one, which shows just how hard a piano trio can swing, caught my ear early. Eugene Holley, Jr.'s liner notes say the tune, penned by bassist Evans, features "an intricate, interlocking fugal intro and outro on the level of John Lewis's Bach-meets-bop arrangements for the Modern Jazz Quartet." If this is any indication, I need to spend more time with the MJQ.
In an interview for Steinway & Sons, Jason Moran said of Jamal that when you hear him play, you are hearing him "making notes, making new choices, and then you hear the next exploration. So they come in bursts; they're always unexpected. You're not sure of when he's gonna be really simple or when he's going to be totally virtuous. And that flexibility in a pianist is very rare." That flexibility is showcased here, and if any of this sounds remotely appealing, you would do well to check it out.
If you're looking for more, you will find many mentions of At the Pershing: But Not for Me, a live trio date from 1958. Reading up about Jamal earlier this year after being so taken by these live albums, I sought out a copy and was charmed by the eight-minute take on the standard, "Poinciana." It seems I'm not alone, as it became his signature song after that LP went on to sell a million copies. Listening to it again tonight, I was taken with how hard it swings despite Jamal's seeming light touch, a bouncing melody and a few block chords atop a loping, minimalist beat doing so much.
Robert Wood Lynn - Mothman Apologia
I picked up Robert Wood Lynn’s debut poetry collection, Mothman Apologia, after reading a rave review in a year-end list that made it sound as if it was written with the express goal of ticking all of my boxes. I don't recall where I read the review, and frankly, I don't want to search for it because I want to live with the experience of having read it without it being colored by outside analysis. Thank you to whoever wrote that review, because you introduced me to the best, most cohesive poetry collection I have read in years. Everything just works, everything connects, everything flows logically… while at the same time knocking you upside of the head with some of Lynn's dexterous juxtapositions.
The book weaves a few strands together: It's an elegy for a friend, a condemnation of oxycodone in general and the Sackler Family behind Purdue Pharma in particular, and an examination of views of the American South. The main thread can be found in the series of "Elegies for Fire and Oxycodone." As with many of Lynn's poems, they are more text blocks composed of short phrases that bump up against one another in inventive ways, spacing keeping everything block justified while creating odd pauses and connections in the reader's mind.
I want to pull out lines that will explicate all of this, but to do so would be to rob them of their context, and this is a book-length exercise in context. I'll offer one, the closing lines from the opening poem, "(The Mothman Gets High)," which introduces a presence that pops in and out of the collection (read Rae Armantrout's praise filled introduction for more on the Mothman):
I've never felt further from another than when
standing beside them trying to point out a star.
In her introduction, Rae Armantrout writes, "This book is a warning in itself. It warns us to look to our language." How many articles, blog posts, and tweets have we read about any of Lynn's targets here, words strung together, sometimes artfully, usually not, that sting and then fade? Here, Lynn has created something that stays with you; it compels thought, contextualizes pain and grief, confusion and frustration.
When missing the show is still satisfying
I was trying to squeeze too much into an evening last weekend: A jazz showcase at my sons' high school, post-event clean up, and post-clean up chauffeuring before heading to another show. The place and the act don't matter to the story; what matters is that I walked in just as the final note was sounding from the stage. I nudged a friend to ask how long the band had been playing, assuming I had just missed a few songs. "I think that's it," he said. Sure enough, it was. Another friend said he felt sorry for me. It's one thing to miss a show, but to be this close… it seemed cruel.
Yet it was oddly satisfying. True, I didn't hear the band, but I was allowed to feel that post-set glow, the rousing applause that yielded smiles from the performers. I got to chat with friends and just hang out in that warm space that follows an intimate performance. It reminded me that a show is about more than music. I could have stayed home and listened to a record or two. Sometimes, that is what I want. But other times, going out to hear someone take the risk of playing live, of being about to share that with others, to see and talk with friends new and old, that's what I need. To know I missed something good was its own reward, reminding me of how blessed we are when we can gather to hear someone share their art.