New Year’s Resolution #40,000,307: write your impressions of gigs and put them somewhere public they can be safely ignored.  

A recent BBC radio 4 programme asked the recurring question “Is Jazz Dead?”. The programme itself and a corner of the internet where I like to hang out responded with a fairly resounding “No!”

This is my tuppence worth, as a regular jazz audience member. From where I’m sitting, unless wellbeing is measured solely in terms of vast, in your face, commercial success, Jazz looks perky enough. Health, in the case of the arts, seems to require a balance be struck between solvency and creativity. If you were to measure jazz’s state solely in terms of creativity and commitment then, to quote many a pulpish portrayal of Frankenstein, “IT’S ALIIIIIIIIVE!”

To my ears, anyway. I cannot speak for yours.

In fact, Jazz may well be hanging out, having a pint and bringing some of the UK’s ablest musicians and most active composers to your local pub or small venue. Entrance often costs a mere £5 - £8. For less than a typical London cinema ticket you can have at once complex yet accessible music and a nice drink. Win. The downside is that I find the anticipation of walking into a pub on my own a smidge less than comfortable. The voice of propriety speaks loudly in my head: “nice gels do not go into pubic houses alone”. Yesterday, this non-hurdle nearly put me off. But I bravely ventured through the cold to The Salisbury on Green Lanes to see Compassionate Dictatorship.

I have now run out of blather. I now have to write about the music. Which is where I come unstuck. I must reiterate that these are my ‘impressions’. Forgive me if I descend into pretentiousness hereafter.

Perhaps it was the slightly scuffed red walls with broken flower fluted lampshades sprouting at intervals. Perhaps it was the glass of red wine. Perhaps it was the real fire and the cheery welcome from the gig organiser on the door. But the word that sprang to mind on the way home was amniotic. If one can have an amniotic groove? Surprisingly mellow given that the website promised everything up to and including rock wig outs. Amniotic infused with a sense that something much, much, filthier was being gestated. Filthy as in funkier, harder edged. I suspect this had a lot to do with the intricate subtlety of the drumming which broadened into even more intricate soloing. Bassist and bass, a partner dance, man and instrument. An arresting solo that opened with fading dynamics on a single note – reminiscent to me of the reverb on the opening chord of a thumping reggae* choon. That moment where your cervical spine lets go sending your head towards your feet, nodding. A solo that ran out of steam and into a wry smile just before the apparent finishing line. The guitar and tenor sax lines were melodic, grounded in, bouncing off, floating over the rhythm section, sometimes all of these verbs  at once. A moment of Balkan inflection, appropriately enough, on a tune that, according to the banter, told the tale of woe involving an Eastern European beat-boxer. An arrangement of a Joni Mitchell (I think, help, my memory of events less than 12 hours ago has faded). If I have a minor gripe then it’s that the saxophone microphone might have been underused. I wanted to hear even more of the lovely melodies. Overall a tight unit with no single player overwhelming the whole.

Compassionate Dictatorship: Jez Franks (Guitar, compositions), Tori Freestone (Sax, compositions), Jasper Høiby (Bass) and James Maddren (drums). 

http://www.compassionatedictatorship.co.uk/

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Added bonus 25% of the band is female. An instrumental jazz rarity. Yay! And yes, this was part of my reason for going. Because one thing I figure I can do about the small numbers of women instrumentalists playing jazz is to find out about their music, and if I like the sound of what I find out - go to their gigs and buy their CDs. Which in no way means I'm going to stop going to gigs with men or stop buying their CDs. Just that I'm going to take "women in jazz" as a jumping off point for exploring more often. 

* I hear this word in my mind in Brazilian Portuguese pronunciation as “heggae”. Just so you know.