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Category Archives: Music. Movies. Media. More.

Why U Wanna Treat Him So Bad?

15 Apr

"Have you heard the word of God and the greatness of hair relaxer today?"

When asked to respond to allegations made in an unauthorized biography, the iconic Marlon Brando shrugged, “Friends don’t write books. Acquaintances do.”

For the 2011 book, Prince: Inside the Music and the Masks, author Ronin Ro (no, I don’t believe that’s his real name either), had to rely upon speaking with managers, musicians, record company executives and others banished from the Purple One’s private universe. As the Artist Who Rarely Speaks to the Press often forbids reporters from recording his few interviews or taking notes , there was no way Prince himself would consent to speak to Ro and does it shows.

Prince is one of the few artists whose output is deserving of the 356 pages Ro devotes to him, but the book is short on any new insights for anyone not already familiar with many of the stories and there is considerably less attention devoted to the music than the miniature musician’s contentious relationship with Warner Brothers. The battle lines are drawn from the beginning as Prince rejects his label’s insistence his debut album, For You be produced by Maurice White, leader of Earth, Wind and Fire.

From that point on, Ro’s storytelling becomes a loop of tales of Prince’s irrational wish to release as much music as he wants to whenever he wants and Warner Brother’s fears of glutting the market with increasingly inferior records to the multimillion selling Purple Rain. The war between art and commerce is an old one and Ro decidedly comes down on the side of commerce as he focuses on how each subsequent post-Purple Rain release from Around the World in A Day performed worse than its predecessor until 1991′s Diamonds and Pearls broke the losing streak.

Ro does well in shining a light on former band members such as guitarist Dez Dickerson, bassist Mark Brown, and the closest thing Prince ever had to actual collaborators Wendy Melovin and Lisa Coleman, but even then he bungles the personal aspects. At one point an angry Prince tells the two who were in a lesbian relationship they would both burn in hell and then the matter is never mentioned again. It’s interesting to learn “Kiss” was given to Brown’s band, Mazarati, but after changing his mind, Prince takes the song back for himself telling Brown, “this song’s too good for you guys” but does Brown resent his former boss’s selfishness? Who knows? Ro never bothers to tell us.

Prince’s personal relationships with Sheila E., Susannah Melovin, actress Kim Basinger, and marriage to Mayte Garcia are mentioned, briefly commented upon and tossed aside.  We are told his supposed rivalry with Michael Jackson was exaggerated, but the only revelation comes that Prince kicked the King of Pop’s ass in table tennis and he decided against doing  a duet on Jackson’s “Bad” because he found the “your butt is mine” lyric ridiculous.

What Ro is most interested in is making the case that while undeniably talented and a creative genius, what Prince lacks in height he makes up for by being a total douche bag. The overall impression given is Prince is cold and indifferent to almost everyone he’s ever come in contact with and is one of the most egotistical, arrogant creeps ever.

Inside the Music and the Masks is full of sloppy writing and missed opportunities.  Ro repeats a claim that a fanzine paid Prince not to get involved in assembling The Hits/B-Sides box set, but just throws that tantalizing line out there unable or uninterested in verifying it. During the height of his battle with Warner Brothers, Prince changes his name to an unpronounceable glyph figuring out if “Prince” is no longer making music, he can escape his contract and the five albums he still owed the label. How this strategy could work doesn’t concern Ro. It only furthers his case Prince is a nut hellbent on fucking up his career.

Ro has a bad habit of climbing into Prince’s head to overhear conversations he wasn’t present for. At one point when an unnamed journalist (Ro couldn’t find out who?) began referring to the petulant pop star as The Artist Formerly Known As Prince, Ro writes, It seemingly ridiculed his decision but American newspaper writers used it too. So did TV stations. He frowned, “I’m not The Artist Known As Anything. Use my name.”

How does Ro know Prince was frowning? Who was he directing his complaint to? An employee? A friend? His reflection in the mirror? Like I said: sloppy writing and this unauthorized book is full of unattributed remarks just like that.

Musically, Prince is far removed from his purple prime.  Though portions of 2004′s Musicology and the follow-up 3121 have their bright moments, they are unessential for anyone but the die-hard fan. As a free agent roaming from label to label, Prince has become the equivalent of the journeyman player in the NBA who will always find work as long as he can occasionally knock down a shot. He makes still makes Prince albums but you get the feeling he makes them for no one but himself and that suits him just fine. Where he is his in his element is onstage where a live Prince show is still a hot ticket when he goes on tour and as his 2007 Super Bowl performance demonstrates he can play some bad-ass guitar even in high-heels and the rain.

It isn’t necessary for an author to like his subject and Ro clearly feels Prince’s ego prematurely sabotaged his career. I don’t disagree. The 53-year-old with the ageless features is a far cry from the guy I once argued had failures more interesting than others’ success. He exhausted even my patience with ego trips like the lumbering three-CD, three-hour Emancipation.

Prince deserves much of the criticism he receives, but he also deserves a better critique of his music than this.  In 2002, Prince took offense at former recording engineer Susan Rogers for implying she possessed special insights into his music.  “Susan Rogers, for the record, doesn’t know anything about my music.  Not one thing.  The only person who knows anything about my music is me.”

That could have served as the best critique of Ro’s sketchy accounts and lack of attention to detail.  There is a good book to be written about Prince by someone who can bring an even-handed approach to the topic but this is not hat book and Ro is not that writer.

Brando was right. Friends don’t write books, but acquaintances do and so will enemies.

"Yeah, you wish you could grow your hair like this!"

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Posted by on April 15, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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Esperanza Spalding Can’t Save Jazz (and shouldn’t be expected to).

01 Apr

If Spalding is supposed to save jazz, then jazz is in a lot of trouble.

When you’ve been invited to perform for the President of the United States, turned heads as the bass-playing beauty in the Academy Awards house band, toured with Prince and beat out teen dream Justin Bieber for the Grammy Award for Best New Artist, you’re having a very good run in the spotlight—and it could turn your head.

From time-to-time an artist gets dubbed as the new savior of jazz. Usually this title is handed out by publications with only a cursory interest in jazz. It’s possible Spalding neither sought nor seeks the responsibility, but with success comes expectation and the expectation is that Radio Music Society, Spalding’s fourth album and her first since her Grammy upset, will be popular in a way few jazz albums have, at least since since guitarist George Benson and saxophonist Kenny G were at their commercial peaks.

The problem with Radio Music Society is it’s only okay as jazz and is tentative as pop music. Spalding is a musician, songwriter, lyricist, arranger and producer and while she does all of this adequately, she does none of it spectacularly.

Everything that has ever been wrong with Spalding is still wrong on Radio Music Society. She’s competent on bass without being exceptional. Her voice is thin and her range limited. The earnestness of her lyrics is overcome by the lumpiness in the delivery. For an album polished and created with maximum airplay in mind, Radio Music Society is noticeably missing a key component of successful pop music: a killer hook. There are multiple vocalists, a choir, a huge horn section, strings, drummers and rappers all over this sprawling record, yet Spalding’s arrangements are sparse and lacking in energy.

“I Can’t Help It,” a Stevie Wonder composition that was performed by Michael Jackson and produced by Quincy Jones for Jackson’s Off the Wall (Epic, 1979,) was then a sweet and soulful little slice of pop heaven livened by Jackson’s energy and affinity for the material. By contrast, Spalding just plows through with an indifferent interpretation that squanders a tenor saxophone solo by Joe Lovano.

Much more successful is “Black Gold,” the stand-out which is an ode to black youth remaining positive in the face of criticism and skepticism. It features an effective duet between Spalding and Algebra Blessett’s stronger vocal abilities. Despite a meandering conclusion, it’s a pretty lead-off single that will doubtlessly play well with younger listeners attuned to Spalding’s neo-soul stylings. “Cinnamon Tree” benefits from Olivia DePrato and Jody Rednage on violin and cello respectively and a soaring guitar solo from Jef Lee Johnson.

Those that bother reading liner notes will notice the familiar names of veterans such as Lovano, Terri Lyne Carrington, Billy Hart and Jack De Johnette as well as vocal contributions from Lalah Hathaway and Leni Stern and assume there will be enough serious jazz to offset the pop aspirations. They may be taken aback once they hear the clunky and heavy-handed environmental message in the lyrics Spalding penned for Wayne Shorter’s “Endangered Species.”

Radio Music Society is Spalding’s first all vocals/no instrumentals record and was conceived with maximum airplay in mind as the first track, “Radio Song,” practically declares. For those digging on Spalding’s girlish but limited range, they know exactly what to expect; but clocking in at over six minutes in length, wafer-thin vocals, knotty shifts in tone, and lacking a chorus to sing along with, “Radio Song” isn’t likely to give Adele anything to worry about when it comes to airplay supremacy.

Two years after its release, Chamber Music Society (Telarc, 2010) was still riding high as the sixth best-selling album on Billboard’s 2011 jazz chart and there is no reason to think the more overtly commercial Radio Music Society won’t perform even better. Despite the fact that it’s unfocused, messy and seems to go on longer than its nearly hour long playing time, this will easily be the biggest jazz album of 2012 (which is absolutely not the same as saying it is the best jazz album of 2012).

The deluxe edition includes a DVD with 11 videos (only “Endangered Species” doesn’t receive one). It’s a mixed bag because the songs that don’t really work on the CD, like “Vague Suspicions,” don’t work any better because there’s a visual to go along with the audio. Spalding is pretty, but she’s not a convincing actress and some of the story ideas are corny, embarrassing or both. The DVD includes bonus material including a 16-minute “making of” the videos.

Radio Music Society aims high and when it succeeds it achieves its ambitious, audacious agenda. A lot of this hinges on Spalding’s big goals, big talent and big hair. She is till a work in progress and even when her ambitions exceed her accomplishments Spalding is still one of the most interesting artists working today. It remains to be seen if she’s really “the One” or the latest in a long list of would-be jazz “saviors.”

Not that jazz necessarily needs one.   All the genre needs is exposure, airplay and some respect.  Jazz has had supposed saviors before.  Kenny G.’s snooze saxophone and Wynton Marsalis’ straight ahead approach taking jazz back to the roots were both hailed as “gateway artists” whose success would surely draw new listeners to jazz.  Has it really worked out that way?  It’s possible, but it doesn’t seem like its worked out that way. 

This review originally appeared at All About Jazz.com

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Posted by on April 1, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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Has Anybody Seen Eddie Murphy’s Swagger?

11 Mar

What goes on in Eddie's head?

Build up enough good will with people and they will tolerate your crap far longer than they probably should.  Eddie Murphy built up a deep reservoir of good will when he was young and coming from Saturday Night Live.  When was making good movies like 48 HRS, Trading Places, Beverly Hills Cop and Coming To America, his last good movie.

Eddie got second, third, fourth and fifth chances when he was squandering his talent on irredeemable trash like Vampire In Brooklyn, Pluto Nash, Daddy Day Care, Norbit and Meet Dave.   None of them were worthy of his time or talent, but in Eddie we trust.  Sooner or later he had to make another movie that would remind us why we fell in love with Murphy in the first place.

Eh, maybe not. Eddie never pretended he wouldn’t make rotten movies if the money was right.  When he made Best Defense in 1984 he was criticized for his cash grab cameo, but he shrugged it off with a quote on his IMDB page about why he accepted the part, “The door opened and four guys came in carrying a check.”

Murphy’s check for Best Defense was a million dollars.  By 2002. and the horrendous The Adventures of Pluto Nash, the zeroes on the check had swelled to $20 million. .2011s Tower Heist, the latest project to yet again promise the return of Classic Eddie Murphy, fell short of expectations at the box office, but still put another $7 million into his bank account.

Murphy gave up trying to pretend he was making good movies anymore.  When he turned to kid-friendly crud such as Daddy Day Care, it was to show his range.  He wanted to make movies he could show his kids where he wasn’t cursing a blue streak.  So what if  he was playing it safe?.  Make the movie, cash the check, do as little publicity as possible promoting them and move on to the next job.  Murphy would kept floating along blissfully on that shrinking reservoir of good will.

Eventually, reservoirs do dry up and good will runs out.  And so

A Thousand Words may not be the worst movie Murphy has made but its going to make a serious run at whatever his worst movie is. Know that “What the hell happened?” look people get when they walk into a bathroom when someone has just used it and blown it up?   That’s the look Murphy should have on his face right about now.

A perfect movie. Perfectly awful!

Up to 37 reviews now at Rotten Tomatoes and all 37 reviews are rotten.   You know how badly a movie has to be that not even one critic will say they kinda sorta liked it a little bit?   A Thousand Words could get a thousand reviews and it would still be a rock bottom remnant that should have avoided this humiliation and gone straight to DVD.

Then again, A Thousand Words isn’t exactly new Eddie Murphy.  It was finished in 2008 when Paramount was still distributing Dreamworks, sat on the shelf forgotten like leftovers in the back of the refrigerator when it got a January release date when Murphy was scheduled to host the Academy Awards.  When he pulled out of the gig, Paramount moved A Thousand Words to March and into just over 1,000 theaters without pre-screening it for critics.

Any film that sits around that long and sneaks into under 2,000 screens without critics seeing it first practically screams “I suck”, but even the Paramount execs couldn’t have thought A Thousand Words would meet Bucky Larsen and Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever levels of suckage.

This is supposed to be a “high concept” flick and the pitch probably went like this:  Murphy has been hexed and once he says (or writes or types) 1000 words he dies.  Haw-haw!.  So, you see this is a Eddie who CAN’T TALK!  Who talks more than Eddie?  NOBODY! 

This is what is known as counter-intuitive programming.  What made Axel Foley and Reggie Hammond funny  the way mouths got them in and out of trouble.  Taking away Murphy’s gift of gab makes about as much sense as putting a paper bag over Halle Berry’s face and expecting her acting alone will draw in audiences   Murphy making funny faces and bugging out his eyes might squeeze out a giggle or two, but over 91 minutes that’s a deadly error in judgment.

All you had to look at some of the principals involved in A Thousand Words and sense impending doom.  The director was. Brian Robbins who had previously bombed with Murphy on Norbit, and Meet Dave.  It was written by Steve Koren whose last film was Adam Sandler’s, Jack and Jill, a multiple Razzie award nominee.  One of the producers was Nicholas Cage who rivals Murphy when it comes to stars who can’t find their way to a good script with a telescope.

What makes Murphy’s Rolling Stone interview riveting reading is how nonchalantly he acknowledges his bad choices as bad choices. Responding to a question how The Nutty Professor turned his fortunes around Murphy is characteristically blunt.  “I had a bunch of movies that didn’t work. People were saying, “Eddie’s not good,” so I was like, “Not good? Let me show you what I can fucking do. I’ll do something where I play all these different characters.” It’s a trip, it seems every five or six years, you have to do something to remind them that they like you. Then you get offered a bunch of stuff, because you were in a hit, and some of the movies might be shitty, but they throw so much paper at you that you can’t say no to it. That happens a bunch in this town. The problem when you’re doing those flicks for a lot of paper, though, is on TV they show your hit right next to your flop, on there forever.”

Oh no. Not another stinker, Eddie?

You can’t embarrass Murphy by dogging him out for using his considerable charm in front of the camera and loafing through shitty movie after shitty movie and anyone expecting to guilt-trip him into snapping out of it and start making great movies again might be waiting a while.   Murphy made it clear why that’s unlikely on his IMDB page.

I know what I’m capable of doing and what I’m capable of not doing. To be perfectly honest, I’m a little afraid of doing a straight dramatic film. I’m not saying I couldn’t do it. I’m saying I’m afraid to. Everyone is afraid of failure…Every bad decision I’ve made has been based on money. I grew up in the projects and you don’t turn down money there. You take it, because you never know when it’s all going to end. I made ['Beverly Hills Cop III  because they offered me $15 million. That $15 million was worth having Roger Ebert's thumb up my ass.

If anyone were to offer me $15 million to write something I knew was terrible I'd question how it might affect my artistic integrity for all of 30 seconds and then I'd sign the dotted line before they could snatch the contract away.   Maybe it's time to stop punishing Murphy for making all of his best movies in his first ten years.

Murphy says he's over his family friendly phase and wants to "do some edgy stuff."   With that thought in mind there was talk he would be working with Spike Lee on a Marion Barry biopic.  Just like there was talk Murphy would make a Richard Pryor and a James Brown biopic. Not one of those projects has reached the pre-production stage of seeing the light of day.

It doesn't matter what movie an actor says they want to make.  What matters is what movies they do make and the next one for Murphy is giving voice to the old Hanna-Barbara cartoon, Hong Kong Phooey.   Putting words in the mouth of a kung fu fighting' canine is what makes up "edgy" in Eddie's world.

It's scary being edgy and making yet another piece of schlock for non-discriminating kids is much safer and probably much more lucrative.  Murphy swaggered into that redneck bar in 48 HRS some 30 years ago as the kind of bad ass Black man mainstream Hollywood thought had disappeared with Blaxploitation B-movies.  It's time to accept for young people Murphy is best known as Donkey in Shrek.

Bad movies alone won't kill Murphy's career.  He figured long ago he couldn't eat critical praise and if he gets too old for physical comedy he can still make millions with his mouth even if A Thousand Words stupidly robs him of his gift of gab.

There may be setbacks in The Eddie Murphy Business but business never gets so bad he can't make a buck with that mouth.  Donkey would be proud but Axel and Reggie?  Probably not so much.

You want edgy? Eddie gives you edgy!

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Posted by on March 11, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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One Piano, Two Musicians, Four Hands Equal a Captvating Collaboration

09 Mar

James and Matsui take a break from the smooth jazz syndrome.

In a culture inundated with movies that go unseen, books that go unread and music that goes unheard, it’s easy for worthy art to slip through the cracks. That was the sad and undeserved fate of the 2011 Bob James and Keiko Matsui four-hand piano collaboration, Altair & Vega. Solo recordings are a standard for jazz pianists, and James’ and Matsui’s training and love of classical music are familiar to their fans, but two musicians playing one piano at the same time is something a little bit different.

Altair and Vega are two stars that pass each other once a year, but it took 11 years for James and Matsui to link up and fully realize what began with “Ever After,” their first collaboration with piano for four hands on Matsui’s Whisper From the Mirror (Narada, 2000). A year later, Matsui joined James for two tracks on his underrated Dancing On the Water (Warner Brothers, 2001). After a decade, the two mainstays of smooth jazz reunited for a record highly unlikely to receive much airplay by any smooth jazz radio station.

The interplay between the two is joyful and at times dazzling. James’ “Divertimento,” with its apt subtitle, not only allows “The Professor and the Student” to show off their considerable chops, it’s playful fun. Things get a bit more serious on Matsui’s “Frozen Lake,” and the grandiose “The Forever Variations” is stately without being stiff or overly solemn. James and Matsui are not trying to set the music world on its ear as much as they are just coming together to jam.

To the extent this is a jazz record, the playing is never less than impressive, as the pianists’ pairing inspires them to greater heights than those they occasionally settle for. Whether Altair & Vega qualifies as light classical music or granola-free New Age is a subjective judgment. What is beyond question is how much effort has to go into the four-hands/one piano approach. This is harder than it looks folks, and one need go no further than the companion DVD for proof—a live concert filmed at Manchester Craftsmen’s Guild in Pittsburgh last year.

On his own or with Fourplay, James has been a staple on the radio, if not the “best of” critics list.  Likewise for Matsui whose style blends jazz, classical and New Age and whose playing is tasteful and cerebral while remaining completely accessible.   Neither pianist needs to prove anything to anybody, and freed from any commercial considerations this collaboration is relaxed and casual.  Nothing terribly dramatic happens, but James and Matsui clearly are having fun.

So why didn’t Altair & Vega hit? Perhaps it not being remotely smooth jazz confused the pianists’ usual audience. Perhaps the surnames of James and Matsui didn’t catch the interest of more traditional audiences who associate the duo with smooth jazz. Either way, it’s not too late for both audiences to tune into this terrific collaboration.

This review originally appeared at All About Jazz.com

 
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Posted by on March 9, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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Can Viola Davis Get A Little Help?

27 Feb

Attractive, intelligent, talented and looking for a part worthy of her.

Viola Davis, you is kind, you is smart, you is important, and by the grace of God you will be in better movies than The Help.

I’m sure it stings a bit losing the Best Actress award, but if you had to lose to someone, there’s no shame in coming in behind Meryl Streep.   I am just as happy that Octavia Spencer won an Academy Award for a performance in a movie that I will never watch as I was for Monique winning an Academy Award for a performance in a movie that I will never watch.

Once upon a time, Halle Berry was supposedly looking at playing Elaine Brown, the Black Panther who wrote “A Taste of Power.”  Anyone wanna guess why that flick never got green lit and Halle is doing crap going straight to DVD now?

I want to see Black women being able to play leaders of entire countries like Streep instead of their hired help.  Why settle for sistas always having to play subservient roles like this?  You think Denzil or Samuel L. would play a sassy butler in 2012?

I’ve been asked, “How can you criticize a book you didn’t read and a movie you didn’t watch?”  The answer, is I can’t, but then I’m not criticizing the work, I’m criticizing the part Davis and Spencer played.  Not the performance.  The role itself.

What I know about ‘The Help’ is there is a Black woman who says Kathryn Stockett stole her life’s story and made a gazillion bucks from it.  What I know about ‘The Help’ is not all books and not all movies are made for all people.   I’m not picketing any bookstores selling the book or theaters showing the movie.  By all means, enjoy them both.

However, I don’t see any reason to say I  have to support an artist when they are engaged in a project I’m not interested in.  I remember when Halle won for  her Oscar for Monster’s Ball and even Angela Basset, dogged her out for that role.  Maybe that’s someone’s favorite flick, but I’ve yet to meet anyone who really likes Monster’s Ball.   Haven’t Black folks reached the stage where we don’t have to shrug our shoulders and accept whatever old, White and male Hollywood serves up as their preferred version of entertainment.?   What’s wrong with demanding and expecting movies that makes us feel good about images depicted on-screen?

I would love to see Viola Davis in a contemporary adult love story with her paired with someone like Idris Elba,  There is a market for films pitched to Black audiences.   Tyler Perry has proven that to be true.  Those kind of films don’t get produced by Hollywood.  But Black women as maids or morbidly obese illiterates brutalized by their psychotic mammas?  Comin’ right up!

No win, but no wig either for Viola at the Oscars.

You get what you’re willing to put up with.  I’m looking for some portrayals of Black women and men that don’t revolve around telling little White girls how kind, smart and important they are.  Sue me for my unreasonably high standards.

Hattie McDaniel won a Best Supporting Actress award for playing a maid in 1939.  73 years later and I’m supposed to pump my fist for another sister playing a domestic?.    I get it that Black women have played servants, maids, domestics and all that good stuff.   They  have those roles down pat.  Can’t we move on to playing something else yet?  If  Sisters in Outer Space are too far-fetched, how about at least a doctor or lawyer?  Can an executive in Hollywood concede that’s not too wild an idea?

I don’t write scripts, but I do know there are stories to tell and movies to be made about Fannie Lou Hamer and Coretta Scott King and Kathleen Cleaver and Angela Davis and Shirley Chisholm and other sistas who ain’t wiping no little White kid’s snotty nose.

There are a plethora of stories to be told about Black women leading countries, freeing slaves, fighting for their civil rights and just to be accepted as women. I’m 56 years old now and I’m getting pretty damn tired waiting around for a decent movie about Black women who were the backbone of the Civil Rights and Black Power movements. When are those stories going to get around to being  told?

Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer need something more than the recognition of an Oscar.  They need the validation of roles that allow them to stretch and show their talents as actresses.  They deserve better and we do too.

Just how good is Davis anyway?  Until she begins to receive the opportunities and roles Meryl Streep gets to showcase her skills, we may never know.

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Posted by on February 27, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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Jazz should soar, not bore.

24 Feb

Jessica Williams flies high, but under the radar.

The best thing about jazz is it opens your ears to musicians you might otherwise miss.  The worst thing about jazz is when a musician plays it so safe it almost puts you to sleep.

JESSICA WILLIAMS TRIO/FREEDOM TRANE (Origin Records)

It is no coincidence that pianist Jessica Williams draws inspiration and energy from saxophonist John Coltrane, another iconoclast whose dogged pursuit of his individalistic muse stood in defiance of trends, customs, critics, and marketplace concerns. Like Coltrane, Williams prides herself in being relentlessly faithful to her own standards of how to play and how to market her music. While that enables her to be a fiercely independent talent, it has also made her an underrated one.

On her solo piano outings, such as The Art of the Piano (Origin Records, 2009), Williams’ playing is engaging while remaining serious and cerebral. Augmented on Freedom Trane by bassist Dave Captein and drummer Mel Brown, Williams shows off her ability to swing. Never loosing her impeccable sense of taste, Williams is downright frisky and playful on Coltrane and Sonny Rollins’ “Paul’s Pal” and, on the title track, she’s bopping and grooving hard with Brown’s timekeeping, which is right in the pocket. It’s the sort of tune that demands another listen just as soon as it’s over.

As a soloist in the trio format, Williams is simply incandescent and the musicians synchronize like a well-tuned machine. Freedom Trane is a homage to Coltrane’s seminal A Love Supreme (Impulse!, 1965), but Williams’ goal is not to emulate what Trane, pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison and drummer Elvin Jones did in 1964, but to expand upon it. “Prayer and Meditation,” one of four Williams originals, fits comfortably with a lovingly rendered interpretation of Coltrane’s “Naima,” where the Steinway ‘B’ gently caresses like a warm touch. The lush and verdant “Welcome” closes out this super session.

Williams reveals in the liner notes how Coltrane speaks to her as she writes:

John speaks through his horn: “no road is an easy one, but they all go back to God.” God, for me, is us, all of us and everything; it’s the sea and the sky and the stars. We are star-stuff, we are one vibration in a standing wave, and it doesn’t matter if it’s called God or Allah or Aum or Chi or Orgone. It’s gravity and light-years and galaxies colliding and little kittens kittening and bodily love and that chill you get when you listen to great music or see a great painting or hear the sounds of the forest.

Maybe not everything Williams says scans completely, but it’s possible to hear her making her way on a spiritual journey, and Freedom Trane provides that special sort of chill that comes from hearing great music—and this is most definitely great music, made by a great (and sadly underrated artist). This is a high quality and highly recommended performance by Williams, a consummate musician of astonishing grace, passion and skill.

MICHAEL LINGTON/PURE (Trippin’ n’ Rhythm Records)

Here is a disclaimer: Michael Lington plays alto and tenor saxophone, and the saxophone is the dominant instrument of the smooth jazz genre, every bit as much the electric guitar is the dominant instrument of rock ‘n’ roll. This means Lington is trying to stand out in an extremely crowded field.

So what is it about Lington that makes him distinctive and unique compared to Eric Marienthal, Euge Groove, Marion Meadows, Kim Waters, Jeff Kashiwa, Boney James, Dave Koz, Mindi Abair or Walter Beasley? Nothing much, and that is an observation, not a criticism. Lington does not distinguish himself from the pack because he plays it right down the middle.

Everything that’s expected in this sort of instrumental pop music is in abundance on Pure. The playing is professional, the collective sound matters more than the individual solos, the production is slick, clean and polished to a sheen, and with only one tune clocking in over five minutes in length, nothing lasts long enough to become particularly annoying—or involving.

An example of how safe as milk Lington plays it is his throwaway take on Bill Withers’ “Lovely Day.” It’s a perfectly okay version, but what made the original distinctive was the point where Withers holds a note for a jaw-dropping 18 seconds. The saxophone gives Lington the power to approximate the human voice, but does he try to blow and hold a note like Withers? He does not—as if going for the same soaring grandeur Withers achieved might tamper with the relentless smooth groove.

When Lington allows himself to jam he’s pretty good at it. Jeff Golub‘s guitar jumpstarts “Playtime,” and the middle section of Pure gets on the good foot from there until the energy flags at the end. If you’re going to tackle a classic like Jr. Walker’s “Shotgun” you had better be willing to step your game up and Lington does overcoming a wobbly vocal from ’90s blue-eyed soul belter Michael Bolton. Bolton’s upper register has pretty much gone A.W.O.L, but Lington’s sax fills in the patches.

The musicians surrounding Lington are uniformly good and the guest appearances from Golub, Lee Ritenour, Jonathan Butler and Brian Culbertson, among others, stay within the lines of the overall production. Lington makes no obvious missteps in the choice of cover tunes, and the originals make for perfectly satisfactory listening even if nothing memorable ever happens.

Lington knows what his audience wants and Pure delivers the jazzy, if not the hardcore jazz.

(These reviews originally appeared at All About Jazz.)

 
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Posted by on February 24, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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The Grammy Awards Give Jazz the Crazy Uncle Treatment

14 Feb

Rolling in the deep and raking in the Grammys.

This isn’t going to be a long post because it’s about the Grammy Awards. I didn’t watch the show just like I haven’t watched the show for the better part of the last ten years. No, this isn’t yet another “You’re not getting old, the music just sucks” rant. I am getting old and the music does suck, but at least if you’re a jazz fan you don’t have to stay up past your bedtime.

This was the first Grammy program since they cut out most of the major categories for jazz, Latin and other genres that are not pop, hip-hop and rap. Those Grammys are awarded during a pre-broadcast ceremony outside of the TV cameras.   Nobody wants to watch some old jazz cats taking home the hardware for music nobody listens to in America.

My buddy, Rachel Z., writing in support of reinstating the jazz categories dropped by the Grammys said, “Most of the Major labels have in the past 3 years dropped their Jazz Departments.  That is the sole reason why you are seeing a drop in submissions.  Many independent musicians and labels cannot afford a NARAS membership on their own.  Previously votes presented by major labels though a block voting system implemented by the majors.  What would you suggest that I tell my students at the New School who spend their life dreaming of a Grammy that now there is only one Jazz Category?  2/3 less chance to win!  This gives them the same chance as winning the lottery now after the cutbacks in the Jazz Category.  They are competing with people 5x their age in the Jazz Category.  Not to mention putting Latin Jazz next to traditional jazz…???!!!”

When Stanley Clarke and Chick Corea accepted the Best Improvised Solo award for “500 Miles High” from the terrific 2011 album, Forever, I wonder who was there to watch them besides the workers setting up the stage?

Public Enemy once said, “Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy?” and the marginalization of jazz at the Grammys only confirms that sentiment for me. I don’t care about award shows. I’d rather the musicians make a buck or two, but recognition for them is nice.  It validates my taste.  Unfortunately, jazz is treated like a crazy old uncle the music industry would rather keep out of sight and forget about.

"Does this mean we get to meet Adele?"

They obviously don’t want any more Esperanza Spaldings or Herbie Hancocks taking up any of the face time among all the b.s. awards they have to hand out to nobodies and trendy flavors of the month. In fact that’s what they should call the Grammys: This year’s Flavors of the Month.

Jazz is not a genre where here today and gone later today flourishes. Nor is it a form of music where you can get by as a barely competent rapper or studio enhanced singer. You have to be able to sing. You have to be able to play. And if you can’t do either, you can’t play jazz. Period.

A few thoughts about Adele cleaning up at The Adele Awards (formerly known as the Grammy Awards). I’m an agnostic n Adele. Can she sing? Yes, and no Auto-Tune or wearing costumes made of meat are necessary.

“Rolling In the Deep” is a great song (though, please don’t call it soul) , but 21 is not a great album. “Rolling” kills, but after that it’s pretty slow going. Adele will have a nice long career, but she needs better material.

The Grammys are about celebrity and popularity.  If they could figure out a way to give Kim Kardashian an award for record that wouldn’t make them look insane, they would do it. Most award shows are bullshit anyway.  The Grammy Awards finds all new ways to make themselves even more irrelevant to the art form they pretend to be celebrating.

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Posted by on February 14, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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The Fatal Attractions of Whitney Houston

12 Feb

A voice that soared like an angel crashed to earth dragged down by her demons

For certain celebrities when they pass on and you hear who it was, it’s more of a shrug, than a surprise.

Would anyone really be shocked if Charlie Sheen, Lindsay Lohan or some other professional train wreck were found face down, cold and stiff?  I wouldn’t be.

I’m not surprised Whitney Houston is dead.  I’m a bit sad, but not the least bit shocked.  She had been killing herself for years in a prolonged act of slow-motion suicide.  People that loved her and were close to her tried to help her and tried to save her, but how do you save a woman hell-bent on destroying herself?   You can try, but trying isn’t always enough.

Christopher John Farley, The former music critic for TIME magazine said 12 years ago about interviewing Houston, Now and again you meet people who aren’t as interesting or as nice as you might have thought. For example, Whitney Houston. When I interviewed her some years ago down in Miami, every other word out of her mouth was an “F” word. She cursed more than Snoop Doggy Dog… And then later, as your more untrustworthy stars are apt to do, she denied what she said to me in Entertainment Weekly. Luckily as a journalist — if you’re a good journalist — you tend to tape your interviews, your big ones. So I had the whole interview on tape, and I played it for anyone who wanted to hear it. And that was put to bed. Now and again you’ll run into artists like that who really aren’t like the public image…. That was not as pleasant an experience as one might have thought going in to interview Whitney Houston.

Years later when Houston’s drug problems escalated and her career plateaued, it became obvious that her strange marriage with aging b-boy Bobby Brown wasn’t the case of opposites attracting as it appeared to be.  They were two mutually and equally destructive souls whom together brought out the worst in each other.

I saw Whitney and Bobby as the Black version of Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love.  Bad separately and worse together.  Before the tacky reality show, there was the notorious interview with Diane Sawyer and her defiant rebuttal to rumors Houston was using crack.  She snarled she was making too much money to buy a cheap drug like crack and spat out the three words that would haunt her for the rest of her life, “crack is whack.”

Nobody bought it.  The defiance and the denial poured out of Houston like a cold sweat.

Houston's decline was noticeable and undeniable.

I’m sorry she is dead.  Her last album was a sad affair where her upper range had vanished and where she once soared through songs like “The Greatest Love of All” and “I Will Always Love You,” now she was croaking and wheezing her way through over-produced crap by creeps like R. Kelly.

Once again it is proven as Rick James said, “cocaine is a helluva drug.”   Addiction took James out and I’ll bet it took Whitney the same way it took Amy Winehouse and Michael Jackson.

Like Amy and Michael and Rick, we’ll always have the music after they are gone.  Which is probably for the best.  The music is what matters more than the drugs, the rumors, the scandals, the failed trips to rehab, the cancelled shows and slumping record sales.  Whitney Houston’s star was tarnished by her inability to defeat her demons.  Having it all can leave you with nothing at all.

Tonight and this week, there will be thousands of You Tube videos downloaded of Whitney singing the national anthem and her other hit songs, but from my perspective Garbage’s “Breaking Up the Girl” seems equally apt.

In a modern culture
My friend you must be careful
They’ve a million ways to kill you
In this dangerous world
There’s an art to growing old
Taking chances
Magic happens

One mistake’s all it takes
And your life has come undone
Walk away cause you’re breaking up the girl
It’s a drag
I know it’s hard
But you’re tearing her apart
Walk away cause you’re breaking up the girl

I am afraid that there’s much to be afraid of
Here today and gone tomorrow
Don’t end up in the gutter
Just like the one before
You’re just the same
Such a loser

You’ve go to let her go because you’re breaking up
You’re breaking up the girl

Sad, sad, sad.   Cautionary tales and train wrecks always are.  Houston, she had a problem.

Didn't she almost have it all?

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Posted by on February 12, 2012 in Music. Movies. Media. More.

 

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