Here we are again at The Ark, Xanthe and I in the dark while the stage is brightly lit. We came for Orpheum Bell, but first onstage are the Red Sea Pedestrians. I've heard their CD, and it was ok, it was nothing better or worse than most of the CDs that come through my hands, but I can't match what I heard before I came and what I am seeing onstage. It's hard to know what to expect-maybe plain, upstanding music; you could call them plain, upstanding people by the way their jeans fit, the way banjo player Ira Cohen wears a full-beard like a miner from long ago, the way the two woman are a little careworn and haven't 'done' their hair.
But then they begin to play, and any comparisons I thought I was going to make seem unfair--the music is fast, complicated, modal--maybe eastern European in influence. I want to call their sound steampunk, though Xanthe says steampunk would probably require more organ, or possibly accordian. They have a fiddler, Cori Somers, although I'm tempted to say she's using more classical technique, fancy fingerwork and no folky double-stops. And the clarinet player, Rachel Flanigan-I've heard worse clarinetist who studied for years in college. They mix together a moment of rock drumming with something more folky. Tarantella. Mazurka. A song about Julius Caesar, and Rome. Another about the seances Houdini's wife would hold on Halloween every year after his death. Still another about The Harrison Act, which banned laudenum, this in Ira Cohen's quavery voice. The tunes had humor, balance, talent. It carried you through the mediocre voices--untrained, maybe unused to singing--and the mildly unfocused and unprofessional--disjointed, even--banter between tunes, through to the hand-clapping, foot-stomping end.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
So You've Probably Heard of Him...
One of the first enthusiastic mentions of Trombone Shorty came from a friend who once told me that jazz was music for intellectuals. While Trombone Shorty isn’t strictly jazz—he’s more closely aligned with funk, and the production of his album Backatown is, in my opinion, very much pop-influenced—he is rooted in the traditions of New Orleans*, and jazz.
I’m thinking about this, sitting in my seat at the Power Center after the Macpodz have left the stage—a high-energy performance that just didn’t draw me in; I took more note of trumpet player Ross Huff’s badly fitted pants than I did the music—and then the lights are coming down and Trombone Shorty’s band, Orleans Avenue, is trouping onstage. Two sax players: Tim McFatter on tenor, and Dan Oestreicher on bari. Two percussionists: Joey Peebles and Dwayne “Big D” Williams. Bass player Michael Ballard. Guitarist Murano. And then finally, Troy “Trombone Shorty” Andrews himself, with a trumpet in one and hand and a trombone in the other, both stretched high over his head in a triumphant greeting.
The crowd adores him, and when he starts to play I am surprised at his tone, his technique. He’s moving so much air through his horn, but the tone is still clear. I could go on—about how his tonguing is so crisp, it’s like having a door shut in your face, about the force of his sound—but despite his chops, he’s almost more of a showman than a brass player. He’s captured the audience with sheer stage presence. They’re standing up in their seats, crowding towards the front, dancing, clapping, shouting.
The band does “Let’s Get It On,” and “On The Sunny Side of the Street,” plus tunes from the album, including “Suburbia.” They take turns soloing, throw in a moment or two of free jazz stylings and Dixieland, and wind things up with that well-recognized tune “Shout.” Trombone Shorty gives each member time to shine, but a bari sax doesn’t always cut through the drumkit, and no matter how great the solo, we’ve all heard more guitar in our lives than probably any other instrument. It’s Trombone Shorty everyone is watching.
Ask a low-brass fanatic to name a famous trombone player, and they’ll probably say Christian Lindberg or Joseph Alessi. Ask a jazz junkie, and the answer is likely to be Tommy Dorsey, J.J. Johnson, or Jack Teagarden. The trombone player is generally not a huge phenomenon, but Trombone Shorty is nothing less than a superstar. And that, as a trombone player myself, is something I just cannot get my head wrapped around. Trombone Shorty, superstar.
*Jazz isn’t the only kind of music to be found in New Orleans. There’s blues, zydeco, Cajun, and more. But think Jazz Fest, second lines, and its reputation as the ‘birthplace of jazz’ (which takes, to say the least, a simplistic view of jazz history).
I’m thinking about this, sitting in my seat at the Power Center after the Macpodz have left the stage—a high-energy performance that just didn’t draw me in; I took more note of trumpet player Ross Huff’s badly fitted pants than I did the music—and then the lights are coming down and Trombone Shorty’s band, Orleans Avenue, is trouping onstage. Two sax players: Tim McFatter on tenor, and Dan Oestreicher on bari. Two percussionists: Joey Peebles and Dwayne “Big D” Williams. Bass player Michael Ballard. Guitarist Murano. And then finally, Troy “Trombone Shorty” Andrews himself, with a trumpet in one and hand and a trombone in the other, both stretched high over his head in a triumphant greeting.
The crowd adores him, and when he starts to play I am surprised at his tone, his technique. He’s moving so much air through his horn, but the tone is still clear. I could go on—about how his tonguing is so crisp, it’s like having a door shut in your face, about the force of his sound—but despite his chops, he’s almost more of a showman than a brass player. He’s captured the audience with sheer stage presence. They’re standing up in their seats, crowding towards the front, dancing, clapping, shouting.
The band does “Let’s Get It On,” and “On The Sunny Side of the Street,” plus tunes from the album, including “Suburbia.” They take turns soloing, throw in a moment or two of free jazz stylings and Dixieland, and wind things up with that well-recognized tune “Shout.” Trombone Shorty gives each member time to shine, but a bari sax doesn’t always cut through the drumkit, and no matter how great the solo, we’ve all heard more guitar in our lives than probably any other instrument. It’s Trombone Shorty everyone is watching.
Ask a low-brass fanatic to name a famous trombone player, and they’ll probably say Christian Lindberg or Joseph Alessi. Ask a jazz junkie, and the answer is likely to be Tommy Dorsey, J.J. Johnson, or Jack Teagarden. The trombone player is generally not a huge phenomenon, but Trombone Shorty is nothing less than a superstar. And that, as a trombone player myself, is something I just cannot get my head wrapped around. Trombone Shorty, superstar.
*Jazz isn’t the only kind of music to be found in New Orleans. There’s blues, zydeco, Cajun, and more. But think Jazz Fest, second lines, and its reputation as the ‘birthplace of jazz’ (which takes, to say the least, a simplistic view of jazz history).
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
It's Called Innovation
My friend Xanthe is at the root of this, really. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have gone to the Ark's Folk Festival and seen The Paper Raincoat the first time. If I hadn't seen them at the Folk Fest, I wouldn't have ended up sitting at one of the Ark's front-row-and-to-the-side tables while Xanthe tells us that, according to facebook, Vienna Teng might be making an appearance.
Vienna Teng, if you're unfamiliar, is a musician currently residing in Ann Arbor. Alex Wong, the male half of The Paper Raincoat equation, refers to her as, “our famous friend, Vienna Teng.” But that's later. We're still waiting for the stage to light up and The Paper Raincoat to come out. There's a keyboard and a drumset, a guitar and several microphones set up, along with several other instruments.
And then here they are: Alex Wong and Amber Rubarth. The Paper Raincoat, joined by drummer Kevin Rice. On this stage, we are intimately familiar with them, although to see us, they have to ask for the house lights to come up—a bad idea if you're going to get nervous, but Alex and Amber handle this polite Ann Arbor audience with aplomb.
In their tunes, The Paper Raincoat often repeat instrumental lines as a first layer. I'm watching Alex Wong doing this with a set of bells balanced on arm, hitting the same notes again and again, but the exchange between a mix of instruments and the two vocal lines, aided by excellent and conscious drumming on the part of Kevin Rice, keeps us from yawning. There are the changes in sound, when one hand reaches out from guitar or piano or bells and adds something new. There’s the overtones of their voices, the striated complexity of Amber's voice against Alex's stable simplicity. We are listening because we want to know—what next? It’s the same set of voices and instruments, but we want to know how the sounds can be taken apart and put together again.
For the last tune, they leave any external instruments behind. All three stand together at the front of the stage and turn their bodies into music, with a cappella vocals and the percussion of their hands. It’s a novelty tune, capturing the wide-eyed darlingness of the group in one go. We clap when they’re done, drawing Alex and Amber back to the stage, and we clap more when Vienna Teng is invited to join them for the encore, a sweet and communicative tune from before they were The Paper Raincoat. From my perspective, the show begins and ends with their famous friend. Although she brings deeper virtuosity with her piano skills, The Paper Raincoat gives us a complete experience on their own.
Vienna Teng, if you're unfamiliar, is a musician currently residing in Ann Arbor. Alex Wong, the male half of The Paper Raincoat equation, refers to her as, “our famous friend, Vienna Teng.” But that's later. We're still waiting for the stage to light up and The Paper Raincoat to come out. There's a keyboard and a drumset, a guitar and several microphones set up, along with several other instruments.
And then here they are: Alex Wong and Amber Rubarth. The Paper Raincoat, joined by drummer Kevin Rice. On this stage, we are intimately familiar with them, although to see us, they have to ask for the house lights to come up—a bad idea if you're going to get nervous, but Alex and Amber handle this polite Ann Arbor audience with aplomb.
In their tunes, The Paper Raincoat often repeat instrumental lines as a first layer. I'm watching Alex Wong doing this with a set of bells balanced on arm, hitting the same notes again and again, but the exchange between a mix of instruments and the two vocal lines, aided by excellent and conscious drumming on the part of Kevin Rice, keeps us from yawning. There are the changes in sound, when one hand reaches out from guitar or piano or bells and adds something new. There’s the overtones of their voices, the striated complexity of Amber's voice against Alex's stable simplicity. We are listening because we want to know—what next? It’s the same set of voices and instruments, but we want to know how the sounds can be taken apart and put together again.
For the last tune, they leave any external instruments behind. All three stand together at the front of the stage and turn their bodies into music, with a cappella vocals and the percussion of their hands. It’s a novelty tune, capturing the wide-eyed darlingness of the group in one go. We clap when they’re done, drawing Alex and Amber back to the stage, and we clap more when Vienna Teng is invited to join them for the encore, a sweet and communicative tune from before they were The Paper Raincoat. From my perspective, the show begins and ends with their famous friend. Although she brings deeper virtuosity with her piano skills, The Paper Raincoat gives us a complete experience on their own.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
You Fall In
The band Photographers was, for me, a period of impatient waiting before Breathe Owl Breathe walked on stage. For all that, it's impossible to say something about this show without saying anything about the Photographers as the opener.
With four bodies on stage, we only saw the faces of two, Maren Celeste and John Hanson. She's the only one facing the audience head-on, but her microphone covered her face and her nervous hands told more of a story than the phrases falling from her mouth. Her vowels sat high-tongued in her mouth; her wobbly vibrato blended each word into the next. We saw Hanson too, a sideways profile facing Maren Celeste; a sapling voice lost in the electronic sounds of the band. Hidden behind them, a girl tapped out continuous vibraphone patterns, and a man worked his way around what looked like it was some kind of electric piano. Everything was electronically driven, including the vocals, creating a sound-scape of effects and instruments. Very frustratingly, this made any natural sounds indistinguishable from their machines. I don't go to the Ark to hear machines. I go to hear music, and the stories behind them.
Which isn't to say that machines are useless. Breathe Owl Breathe combined electronics and traditional instruments to great effect. Andrea Moreno-Beals played her cello or the drums, Micah Middaugh switched from guitar to his “keyboard calculator,” and Trevor Hobbs sat behind his drumset with a stick in one hand and the other fiddling around with some kind of equipment. The sound was constantly changing in intriguing ways. All valid reasons why Breathe Owl Breathe is great to listen to on CD.
What's missing from a CD, though, is the infinite humor that comes with a live show. More than the moments when the audience was invited to join in by clapping or singing, more than Andrea's gorgeous cello lines that the tunes were so often built on, what drew me to this performance was the promise the stories so evident in their music. Add to that the quirky little dances—like the one for Saber Tooth Tiger—and the hats and other props the group likes to use...well, I just want to squee about it, loudly, all over the internets. I'm told that it would entirely un-objective, but I have to say that objectivity here isn't exactly the point. The point is—they danced! they had props! the music was inventive and well-played!
And the stories were like bottomless pits: you fall in, and you fall in, and you fall in.
With four bodies on stage, we only saw the faces of two, Maren Celeste and John Hanson. She's the only one facing the audience head-on, but her microphone covered her face and her nervous hands told more of a story than the phrases falling from her mouth. Her vowels sat high-tongued in her mouth; her wobbly vibrato blended each word into the next. We saw Hanson too, a sideways profile facing Maren Celeste; a sapling voice lost in the electronic sounds of the band. Hidden behind them, a girl tapped out continuous vibraphone patterns, and a man worked his way around what looked like it was some kind of electric piano. Everything was electronically driven, including the vocals, creating a sound-scape of effects and instruments. Very frustratingly, this made any natural sounds indistinguishable from their machines. I don't go to the Ark to hear machines. I go to hear music, and the stories behind them.
Which isn't to say that machines are useless. Breathe Owl Breathe combined electronics and traditional instruments to great effect. Andrea Moreno-Beals played her cello or the drums, Micah Middaugh switched from guitar to his “keyboard calculator,” and Trevor Hobbs sat behind his drumset with a stick in one hand and the other fiddling around with some kind of equipment. The sound was constantly changing in intriguing ways. All valid reasons why Breathe Owl Breathe is great to listen to on CD.
What's missing from a CD, though, is the infinite humor that comes with a live show. More than the moments when the audience was invited to join in by clapping or singing, more than Andrea's gorgeous cello lines that the tunes were so often built on, what drew me to this performance was the promise the stories so evident in their music. Add to that the quirky little dances—like the one for Saber Tooth Tiger—and the hats and other props the group likes to use...well, I just want to squee about it, loudly, all over the internets. I'm told that it would entirely un-objective, but I have to say that objectivity here isn't exactly the point. The point is—they danced! they had props! the music was inventive and well-played!
And the stories were like bottomless pits: you fall in, and you fall in, and you fall in.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Pt. 2: Music is the God-Juice
I've seen pictures of Theo Katzman. He is not (in my personal opinion) a very photogenic man. But when he gets on stage, I can't take my eyes off of him. Here he is, on stage at the Ark, playing with his band Love Massive, and he draws us into the music. He's got the kind of good-natured stage presence that makes the crowd happy to stop half a minute into a tune because he started in a too-high key—we can just laugh about it, and get caught up again in the show. We can hear it all again without even mild complaint.
The music is full-bodied and—well—happy. The band balances out: Joe Dart grooving with his bass line, Mike Shea on the drums, and guest guitarist Tom Stoker completing the motion of the band. All of this fitting together, sounding like the music is meant to be this way, with Theo Katzman as the centerpiece.
They finished with the song 'Feel Love All The Time,' which starts off with the audience joining in on the chorus, and continues with lyrics that are everything I ask for. They work. They have meaning. They're effortless—and above that, they don't sound like they're being written for preschoolers with unending rhymes. In fact, they don't really sound like lyrics at all*:
Somebody called me a fag today
cause of the shoes I wear
They're the only pair I ever bought myself
They cost me a hundred bucks
and I was proud of it
cause I worked for that shit
but I didn't work that hard
It's all so easy—the way the band sounds like they do nothing besides jam together, the lyrics, the performance so laid-back but still full of energy. When the song is done and they leave the stage, the audience is up and applauding. We're wanting a last song, something to hold onto, and a little afraid the band wouldn't have any tunes left for an encore—but here they come, with that stage love, making jokes as they set up about being asked to play Mustang Sally at their last gig. And so we plunge in again, with a furious guitar solo from Stoker; Joe Dart loose-jointed and bobble-headed in all the right ways; Theo Katzman singing and playing guitar while moving in a compact, wild, inviting fashion.
I don't know how he does it—makes me feel so welcome, makes me feel like everyone in the room is welcome, while at the same time making me forget that there is anyone else on the stage. Intellectually, I know he's there with Love Massive, but I can't drag my eyes away from him long enough to watch Joe Dart play the bass, and I love watching that man play bass. This sounds bad, in an obsessive way, but I promise, it's only when I see him onstage.
*I once posted this as my facebook status, and people were asking me if I was traumatized by the experience, and what kind of shoes they were. Not a single person figured out that they were lyrics.
The music is full-bodied and—well—happy. The band balances out: Joe Dart grooving with his bass line, Mike Shea on the drums, and guest guitarist Tom Stoker completing the motion of the band. All of this fitting together, sounding like the music is meant to be this way, with Theo Katzman as the centerpiece.
They finished with the song 'Feel Love All The Time,' which starts off with the audience joining in on the chorus, and continues with lyrics that are everything I ask for. They work. They have meaning. They're effortless—and above that, they don't sound like they're being written for preschoolers with unending rhymes. In fact, they don't really sound like lyrics at all*:
Somebody called me a fag today
cause of the shoes I wear
They're the only pair I ever bought myself
They cost me a hundred bucks
and I was proud of it
cause I worked for that shit
but I didn't work that hard
It's all so easy—the way the band sounds like they do nothing besides jam together, the lyrics, the performance so laid-back but still full of energy. When the song is done and they leave the stage, the audience is up and applauding. We're wanting a last song, something to hold onto, and a little afraid the band wouldn't have any tunes left for an encore—but here they come, with that stage love, making jokes as they set up about being asked to play Mustang Sally at their last gig. And so we plunge in again, with a furious guitar solo from Stoker; Joe Dart loose-jointed and bobble-headed in all the right ways; Theo Katzman singing and playing guitar while moving in a compact, wild, inviting fashion.
I don't know how he does it—makes me feel so welcome, makes me feel like everyone in the room is welcome, while at the same time making me forget that there is anyone else on the stage. Intellectually, I know he's there with Love Massive, but I can't drag my eyes away from him long enough to watch Joe Dart play the bass, and I love watching that man play bass. This sounds bad, in an obsessive way, but I promise, it's only when I see him onstage.
*I once posted this as my facebook status, and people were asking me if I was traumatized by the experience, and what kind of shoes they were. Not a single person figured out that they were lyrics.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Pt. 1: Let's Hear That Again...
When I heard Hannah Winkler was opening for Theo Katzman & Love Massive at the Ark, I made sure (with a little begging and cajoling) that I would be there. Hannah is someone I've been running into at various shows around Ann Arbor for a while. The last time I saw her on stage, though, was as a supporting musician for Theo Katzman when they opened this year's Ann Arbor Folk Festival. She was bang-up then, but I wanted to see what she was up to on her own—and of course another chance to see Theo Katzman & Love Massive made the package perfect.
The line to get in the building at ten minutes to 8 meandered down the sidewalk. People in line were questioning whether we would get in, quoting a local myth that whoever opens the Folk Fest will sell out the Ark for their next performance. We all squeezed in, but the stage remained empty until more or less everyone found a satisfactory place to sit—I was tucked up in a corner with a good view of center stage and a couple minutes later, of Hannah and her guitar.
She's got a voice that shifted from sweet and nostalgic with an occasional wavering vibrato, to cutting and focused. Her voice sounded most comfortable when paired with her guitar, but the guitar sound was thinned out by the drummer and bassist backing her up. Things heated up when she switched from guitar to the heavier sound of the keyboard for a humorous tune based on the idea, 'I wish I were the kind of person who has their shit together'. (I wish I were that kind of person too...) The performance was rounded out when she was joined by Theo Katzman, providing accompaniment with some rather abrupt bottleneck guitar.
When she introduced the band, Hannah told the crowd this was the second time they'd played a show as a group. With Rob on drums and Jordan on bass, Hannah's group is still coming together. They've got a couple rough edges, but they're still playing some tunes that I sure would like to hear again.
The line to get in the building at ten minutes to 8 meandered down the sidewalk. People in line were questioning whether we would get in, quoting a local myth that whoever opens the Folk Fest will sell out the Ark for their next performance. We all squeezed in, but the stage remained empty until more or less everyone found a satisfactory place to sit—I was tucked up in a corner with a good view of center stage and a couple minutes later, of Hannah and her guitar.
She's got a voice that shifted from sweet and nostalgic with an occasional wavering vibrato, to cutting and focused. Her voice sounded most comfortable when paired with her guitar, but the guitar sound was thinned out by the drummer and bassist backing her up. Things heated up when she switched from guitar to the heavier sound of the keyboard for a humorous tune based on the idea, 'I wish I were the kind of person who has their shit together'. (I wish I were that kind of person too...) The performance was rounded out when she was joined by Theo Katzman, providing accompaniment with some rather abrupt bottleneck guitar.
When she introduced the band, Hannah told the crowd this was the second time they'd played a show as a group. With Rob on drums and Jordan on bass, Hannah's group is still coming together. They've got a couple rough edges, but they're still playing some tunes that I sure would like to hear again.
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