24th March - Quadraceratops at The Salisbury
I found out about Quadraceratops through the intriguing hit and miss processes of twitter. You tweet something, it gets retweeted, people look, follow, I look and sometimes follow. And so I found out about this emerging band lead by saxophonist and composer Cath Roberts.
Quadraceratops sound, well, cheerful. I hope this is not, in the world of furrowed brow seriousness that can be jazz, to do it a disservice. Misery does not necessarily equate to quality and joy can be as profound as sorrow. I liked the way the texture constantly shifted - between a more unison 40s big band sound and intricate counterpoint. There was a great tune called "Chairoplanes" (wheeee!). I have an abiding aural memory of "Dinner With Patrick" - the most sinister tune of the evening - describing an imagined meal with the protagonist of American Psycho. It pops up unexpectedly as if it's following me somehow...
28th March - 1st April GMF Festival at King's Place
Participation in the Global Music Foundation Easter Workshop also includes tickets to the Easter Festival gigs. But since doing the workshop also involves negotiating a thorny thicket on the hill of learning jazz this is all rather muddled up in my head. Which got very full over the course of the weekend.
The Bobby Watson All Stars with Bruce Barth (piano), Steven Keogh (drums) and Chris Hill (bass) and later Jean Toussaint joining the jazz legend! Just ace! From her fabulous opening number (Do Wrong Shoes?) Claire Martin made me want to make the effort go and see more singers. In this gig Bruce Barth giving a masterclass in how to be a singer's dream pianist. What else was there? Pete Churchill being great and entertaining. I particularly like the idea that there are some songs such as Young and Foolish that you have to wait until you're old enough to sing them. There was Perico Sambeat's quartet and a gig-lecture on Latin rhythm from Francesco Petrini. Lots of lovely singing throughout the weekend from Guillermo Rozenthuler. And to me, still making me smile the most - the amazing and lovely Montreal based trumpeter Kevin Dean. He was my generous and supportive ensemble tutor for the weekend and it was a complete privilege to hear him play and to learn from him.
The final student concert in Hall 2 was a personal triumph for me even if Kevin's Eleven did take 10 solos on each of our two tunes It felt like an nanosecond to me but the audience may have perceived time differently. I might have played the odd exceedingly unusual chord voicing but I kept going. I took two solos that were satisfying by my standards, and experienced a sense of real pleasure playing with my new friends. I am slowly recovering from a prolonged misery of stage fright - so whatever it sounded like - for me this was momentous.
4th April Laura Jurd & Phronesis at the QEH
The 4th April, it turns out, is poet Maya Angelou's birthday. The internet therefore did that thing that the internet occaisonally does - furnished me with some well written wisdom. Including, aptly enough, this...
"You can only become truly accomplished at something you love. Don’t make money your goal. Instead pursue the things you love doing and then do them so well that people can’t take their eyes off of you."
I was so pleased when I heard that Phronesis had invited Laura Jurd to play on the (free) Friday evening QEH foyer stage! Maybe because my mum has owned at least two VW Polos I particularly liked a tune called Little Red Car dedicated to such a vehicle. Easy to picture myself driving between hedges along country lanes in the sunshine. Jurd's compositions and playing are bright and clear mixing elegant melodic lines with freer elements. I like them. And she's very young so hopefully there's plenty more to look forward to.
For me Phroensis conjure up the restlessness of being unable to sit still in situations that require it. Their evident pleasure in the art of collaboration itself is a joy to behold. At their highest energy it sounds the way wanting to run very very fast for the sheer hell of it feels. This barely caged kineticity* allied with a hint of subversion in the tune titles and inter-tune banter, pleases the residual activists among the army of clowns that live in my head.
10th April Nora Bite & Laka D at The Vortex
It wasn't until Nora Bite got up on stage that I realised just how infrequently I've seen a woman play jazz guitar. As in there's a first time for everything. Rock guitar and electric bass, yes, many times. But jazz guitar? Can't recall hearing any before.This evening I got two (Deidre Cartwright played later with Laka D). A mixture of the gently atmospheric and funkier grooves. Great interaction between the band band members. Rob Paterson adding to the ever growing list of monster (I believe this is the correct term) bassists I've heard recently.
In the blurb Laka D describes herself as the choirmistress from hell. I know from first hand experience back in the day that this is a lie (she'll challenge a group, yes, but with challenges there's always the pay-off). She's also a bloody fantastic musician and entertainer. Why do I always forget what a lovely song Kurt Weil's Speak Low is? And dammit why, even when invited to do so, did I and others not get up and dance? Oh jazz audiences, do we tend towards being a little too prim? A little too staid for our own good? The clowns think we are.
Plus - all time record for wimmen instrumentalists in a band....3 onstage at once - whoop!
______________________________________________________
* It's a word now.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Adventures in A Thorny Thicket on the Hill of Jazz
Learning Jazz is like walking up/ climbing a mountain.
The mountain is endless.
At any point you're free to stop and build a camp. Or settle permanently and perhaps build a log-cabin or a mansion to live in.* Some people build their homes near base camp. Others simply keep going until they run out of life for walking with.
If you have a very powerful telescope and you point it up the hill of jazz, waaaaay past the treeline and a bunch of glaciers, you might be able make out a small group of figures, older guys with a little stiffness about the hips, still strolling gently uphill. You'll maybe catch a glimpse of Sonny Rollins' shock of white hair or Herbie Hancock, iPad in hand. Still walking, still learning.
Everybody's journey up the Hill of Jazz is different.
This weekend I did the Global Music Foundation's Easter Jazz Workshop.
This was a thorny thicket on my journey up the Hill of Jazz. Not that I knew entirely what to expect when I decided to take this particular route up the hill.
Initially I got snagged on some pretty big thorns (Voicings wuh argh urgh? Ear skills way more advanced than I have?...uhmmmmmmmm heyulp!). So I took a deep breath and started fighting my way through. Grasping branches (ouch, ouch) and nettles by the hand and just starting to try and haul myself up the sharp ascent. After a couple of days of thrashing about like this I was very tired. I pretty much wanted to slump in a heap, weeping gently and slide into the nearest available hollow to sleep among the tang of leaf mulch.
At some point though some form of inner resourcefulness kicked in. I remembered to look into my rucksack and pulled out some tools. A very useful exercise from my piano teacher that probably saved my arse once I figured out that this was the most efficient way to spend whatever practice time I could snatch.** A pair of psychological gardening gauntlets that protected my hands from worst spikiness of the thorns. I had no idea I even owned those gloves. Interesting.
Once I was nicely tired out things start feeling slightly surreal. But that's also when you start to notice the beauty - little forest flowers caught in shafts of sunlight. Snatching a few minutes to play whatever the I wanted on the most glorious perfectly tuned oh oh oh Steinway ever! Sneaking into Hall 2 to practice on the freshly tuned piano on the stage (shhhhhh!).
Then I started to really sense that I wasn't alone in the thicket and to hear clearly the voices of the others struggling their way through too. The sounds of their battles and the whoops of encouragement. And then finally hearing that what had initially sounded like barked instructions from the tutors were morphing into a constant stream of "Yeah! Go on! Yeah!" ***
Going uphill through a densely wooded thorny thicket is still hard-work. However you approach it getting through is knackering. Right towards the end I got in a horrible pickle with a masterclass tree that looked looked OK from the outside. It even had pretty blossom on it. But it turned out to have the sharpest thorns of all - stage fright thorns that you just don't see until you touch a branch. I thought I heard the growling of bears under the Steinway too. My brain froze up and I wanted to run away. My head was so full of new ways to grasp nettles and beat back creepers that it completely dumped an entire tune. I disentangled myself by simply jumping into improvising and on the way back out the tune came to my fingers just fine. From this I learned that muscle memory can be useful (believe me if someone is aiming a well timed capoeira kick at your head it can really really help you get out the way) but in jazz you also need a backup of some kind.
Then, almost unexpectedly, it was all over and I burst forth into warm sunlight.
I walked up on stage with my lovely encouraging ensemble group and tutor. I sat down at the piano. I looked out at where the audience were but they were hidden behind the wall of light (how did I forget that this phenomenon existed?). Then I looked at my new friends in my ensemble and I realised....
Oh. I belong here. This is right.
I played the piano in Hall 2 at King's Place.
I did not get eaten by bears!
And it was FUN!****
________________________________________________________________
* I am now imagining a log cabin big enough to house a Steinway baby grand. Oh...that's a fantasy to while away many happy hours. Me, in the woods up a hill in a warm and cosy place with a fantastic piano. Heaven. (I will also have cats)
** Oh Handout 14b, how I love thee.
*** I wish to note here that Canadian trumpeter and educator Kevin Dean is ace in more ways than I have time to write here! Fantastic musician, patient and encouraging teacher and a true gentleman.
**** I gave up playing the piano aged 18 because I had become demoralised by stage fright brought on several years earlier by a failed violin exam. The fact that this was fun...that it felt right...I can't begin to explain here what that means to me....
The mountain is endless.
At any point you're free to stop and build a camp. Or settle permanently and perhaps build a log-cabin or a mansion to live in.* Some people build their homes near base camp. Others simply keep going until they run out of life for walking with.
If you have a very powerful telescope and you point it up the hill of jazz, waaaaay past the treeline and a bunch of glaciers, you might be able make out a small group of figures, older guys with a little stiffness about the hips, still strolling gently uphill. You'll maybe catch a glimpse of Sonny Rollins' shock of white hair or Herbie Hancock, iPad in hand. Still walking, still learning.
Everybody's journey up the Hill of Jazz is different.
This weekend I did the Global Music Foundation's Easter Jazz Workshop.
This was a thorny thicket on my journey up the Hill of Jazz. Not that I knew entirely what to expect when I decided to take this particular route up the hill.
Initially I got snagged on some pretty big thorns (Voicings wuh argh urgh? Ear skills way more advanced than I have?...uhmmmmmmmm heyulp!). So I took a deep breath and started fighting my way through. Grasping branches (ouch, ouch) and nettles by the hand and just starting to try and haul myself up the sharp ascent. After a couple of days of thrashing about like this I was very tired. I pretty much wanted to slump in a heap, weeping gently and slide into the nearest available hollow to sleep among the tang of leaf mulch.
At some point though some form of inner resourcefulness kicked in. I remembered to look into my rucksack and pulled out some tools. A very useful exercise from my piano teacher that probably saved my arse once I figured out that this was the most efficient way to spend whatever practice time I could snatch.** A pair of psychological gardening gauntlets that protected my hands from worst spikiness of the thorns. I had no idea I even owned those gloves. Interesting.
Once I was nicely tired out things start feeling slightly surreal. But that's also when you start to notice the beauty - little forest flowers caught in shafts of sunlight. Snatching a few minutes to play whatever the I wanted on the most glorious perfectly tuned oh oh oh Steinway ever! Sneaking into Hall 2 to practice on the freshly tuned piano on the stage (shhhhhh!).
Then I started to really sense that I wasn't alone in the thicket and to hear clearly the voices of the others struggling their way through too. The sounds of their battles and the whoops of encouragement. And then finally hearing that what had initially sounded like barked instructions from the tutors were morphing into a constant stream of "Yeah! Go on! Yeah!" ***
Going uphill through a densely wooded thorny thicket is still hard-work. However you approach it getting through is knackering. Right towards the end I got in a horrible pickle with a masterclass tree that looked looked OK from the outside. It even had pretty blossom on it. But it turned out to have the sharpest thorns of all - stage fright thorns that you just don't see until you touch a branch. I thought I heard the growling of bears under the Steinway too. My brain froze up and I wanted to run away. My head was so full of new ways to grasp nettles and beat back creepers that it completely dumped an entire tune. I disentangled myself by simply jumping into improvising and on the way back out the tune came to my fingers just fine. From this I learned that muscle memory can be useful (believe me if someone is aiming a well timed capoeira kick at your head it can really really help you get out the way) but in jazz you also need a backup of some kind.
Then, almost unexpectedly, it was all over and I burst forth into warm sunlight.
I walked up on stage with my lovely encouraging ensemble group and tutor. I sat down at the piano. I looked out at where the audience were but they were hidden behind the wall of light (how did I forget that this phenomenon existed?). Then I looked at my new friends in my ensemble and I realised....
Oh. I belong here. This is right.
I played the piano in Hall 2 at King's Place.
I did not get eaten by bears!
And it was FUN!****
________________________________________________________________
* I am now imagining a log cabin big enough to house a Steinway baby grand. Oh...that's a fantasy to while away many happy hours. Me, in the woods up a hill in a warm and cosy place with a fantastic piano. Heaven. (I will also have cats)
** Oh Handout 14b, how I love thee.
*** I wish to note here that Canadian trumpeter and educator Kevin Dean is ace in more ways than I have time to write here! Fantastic musician, patient and encouraging teacher and a true gentleman.
**** I gave up playing the piano aged 18 because I had become demoralised by stage fright brought on several years earlier by a failed violin exam. The fact that this was fun...that it felt right...I can't begin to explain here what that means to me....
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