Clean Feed
A combination of rare events in this circumstance. A trombone-led ensemble, not exactly a common happening, and my complete, possibly indefensible lack of knowledge in regard to the four musicians who form the quartet: leader Samuel Blaser, guitarist Todd Neufeld, double bassist Thomas Morgan and drummer Tyshawn Sorey. One never ends learning, indeed.
The music in Pieces Of Old Sky is sombre, brooding, rarely moving out of a shadowy zone where the attempts of eliciting a faint smile get frustrated by heavy pensiveness and crawling dejection. Blaser’s acoustic personality results quite preponderant; perhaps not really him as a soloist but the trombone itself, especially given a not overly extensive palette. The focal melodies are at times near-memorisable (“Mandala” peculiarly recalling “It Ain’t Necessarily So”), somewhere else they zigzag a little, unfolding in reasonably complicated fashion according to an acceptable degree of atonality.
There is room for further excursion, though: Morgan’s bass, directly related to the main instrument in terms of frequency adjacency, is a reassuring presence whose affirmations are defined by the paucity of notes played rather than their geometric disposition. Both Neufeld and Sorey prefer instead to remain at the edges of interventionism, spreading a barely visible powder over the instrumental tissue through emaciated figurations and merely hinted patterns that fade away almost instantly, typically encouraging Blaser’s return to a thematic home of sorts.
Although it’s difficult to talk about “enthusiasm” after having listened to this album, the mood it creates is, if you pardon the oxymoron, uniquely familiar. Essentially, what emerges is the strength of a well-behaved group, a collective aptitude tinted by the authoritative, immediately identifiable timbre of its mild-mannered boss. A finely regulated democracy where everybody knows who is in command, and is all the more happy for that.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
Thursday, 26 November 2009
OLAF RUPP / MARINO PLIAKAS / MICHAEL WERTMÜLLER – Too Much Is Not Enough
FMP
This album is the result of two days of recording that occurred at Köln’s Loft in May of 2009. A power trio is always expected to produce some variety of dynamic music whatever the context it performs in, yet Rupp, Pliakas and Wertmüller exceeded all anticipations, realizing their vision through the use of nearly superhuman energies, leaving us wanting for more even at the end of a quite long program (circa 65 minutes).
An association that came to mind during one of the repeated spins was Last Exit. Too Much Is Not Enough vibrates in fact of the same devastating fervour, that kind of take-no-prisoners attitude imbued both with technical expertise and utter abandonment of pondering that characterizes the milestones of free improvisation, a category to which this release definitely belongs. Rupp – a guitarist who never managed to enter the realm of personal favourites – shows that his playing on the electric is abundantly superior to what he does with acoustic, scathing lines and sparkling harmonics defining an imperative: that of meaning plenty and thinking less, a quality that not many artists are able to develop. In this case the success is total, enhanced by Pliakas’ overwrought massiveness on the bass, treated as a generator of snarls, rumbles and growls rather than a bottom-delineating machine, and Wertmüller’s frantic drumming, characterized by a splendidly snappy snare amidst perennially rolling avalanches, under which my instinct kept detecting a fundamental vital pulse. Together, the musicians reach a point of continuous boiling that nevertheless doesn’t generate an explosion that would, in a way, waste that accumulation of forces. What is to be loved is the hardnosed threat symbolized by the trio’s implacability, in comparison to which certain hypothetically “rebellious” entities cannot but pale - or plain disappear.
One of those recordings that, listened by a walkman while strolling across the city, put at risk of being hurt by the upcoming vehicles if inadvertently crossing the road, given the impressively discourteous, utterly involving manner in which it transmits the message and the unconditional value of its uproar. Great stuff – and look at the traffic lights before someone runs you over.
This album is the result of two days of recording that occurred at Köln’s Loft in May of 2009. A power trio is always expected to produce some variety of dynamic music whatever the context it performs in, yet Rupp, Pliakas and Wertmüller exceeded all anticipations, realizing their vision through the use of nearly superhuman energies, leaving us wanting for more even at the end of a quite long program (circa 65 minutes).
An association that came to mind during one of the repeated spins was Last Exit. Too Much Is Not Enough vibrates in fact of the same devastating fervour, that kind of take-no-prisoners attitude imbued both with technical expertise and utter abandonment of pondering that characterizes the milestones of free improvisation, a category to which this release definitely belongs. Rupp – a guitarist who never managed to enter the realm of personal favourites – shows that his playing on the electric is abundantly superior to what he does with acoustic, scathing lines and sparkling harmonics defining an imperative: that of meaning plenty and thinking less, a quality that not many artists are able to develop. In this case the success is total, enhanced by Pliakas’ overwrought massiveness on the bass, treated as a generator of snarls, rumbles and growls rather than a bottom-delineating machine, and Wertmüller’s frantic drumming, characterized by a splendidly snappy snare amidst perennially rolling avalanches, under which my instinct kept detecting a fundamental vital pulse. Together, the musicians reach a point of continuous boiling that nevertheless doesn’t generate an explosion that would, in a way, waste that accumulation of forces. What is to be loved is the hardnosed threat symbolized by the trio’s implacability, in comparison to which certain hypothetically “rebellious” entities cannot but pale - or plain disappear.
One of those recordings that, listened by a walkman while strolling across the city, put at risk of being hurt by the upcoming vehicles if inadvertently crossing the road, given the impressively discourteous, utterly involving manner in which it transmits the message and the unconditional value of its uproar. Great stuff – and look at the traffic lights before someone runs you over.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
PETER BRÖTZMANN – Lost & Found
FMP
The three-note call that opens and, as a recurring theme, informs “Internal Rotation” - first of the five tracks that constitute the program of Peter Brötzmann’s newest solo offering - sound like a signal to the doubters. “I’m not only a spitfire machine, not a furious babbler exclusively. I can sing”.
And sing the man does throughout Lost & Found indeed, albeit not in the way a regular listener would anticipate. There are no cost-cutting procedures for the soul in this superb album, which sees the German saxophonist fighting silence – but also listening to it - armed with alto and tenor, b-flat clarinet (masterfully utilized in the title track, among the most melodically refined, dolorously intense pieces I’ve heard from him) and the spectacularly garrulous tarogato, perhaps the instrument that better defines Brötzmann’s unique style, made of drunken loquaciousness, raucous permanence, exalting invocations to some mysterious god of undernourished, ever-raging incomparability.
Still, a significant dose of poetry lies behind what we hear. It might be traced in certain minute details – the artist’s emissions resonating from his chest into the tubes while he blows, for example; it could be individuated in the sense of articulation one identifies even in supposedly discomposed segments, right there where the lone wolf looks for a hypothetical moon to howl at without success, instead deciding to dedicate the fruits of his inner denudation to the scarce quantity of by-passers that chose to stop and listen to those wonderful rants, so absurdly lyrical, so outrageously touching.
Those who disparage the carnality of this expressive method, who find its odour of sweat and blood repulsive, those - in essence - who define this level of improvisation as “noise” need a serious reassessment of their capacity of detecting feelings. This music is achingly stunning, never really hostile despite an often confrontational appearance, a sensitively portrayed rebellion against the concealment of pain, which – thanks to Brötzmann’s magnanimous lungs – becomes as beautiful as love itself.
The three-note call that opens and, as a recurring theme, informs “Internal Rotation” - first of the five tracks that constitute the program of Peter Brötzmann’s newest solo offering - sound like a signal to the doubters. “I’m not only a spitfire machine, not a furious babbler exclusively. I can sing”.
And sing the man does throughout Lost & Found indeed, albeit not in the way a regular listener would anticipate. There are no cost-cutting procedures for the soul in this superb album, which sees the German saxophonist fighting silence – but also listening to it - armed with alto and tenor, b-flat clarinet (masterfully utilized in the title track, among the most melodically refined, dolorously intense pieces I’ve heard from him) and the spectacularly garrulous tarogato, perhaps the instrument that better defines Brötzmann’s unique style, made of drunken loquaciousness, raucous permanence, exalting invocations to some mysterious god of undernourished, ever-raging incomparability.
Still, a significant dose of poetry lies behind what we hear. It might be traced in certain minute details – the artist’s emissions resonating from his chest into the tubes while he blows, for example; it could be individuated in the sense of articulation one identifies even in supposedly discomposed segments, right there where the lone wolf looks for a hypothetical moon to howl at without success, instead deciding to dedicate the fruits of his inner denudation to the scarce quantity of by-passers that chose to stop and listen to those wonderful rants, so absurdly lyrical, so outrageously touching.
Those who disparage the carnality of this expressive method, who find its odour of sweat and blood repulsive, those - in essence - who define this level of improvisation as “noise” need a serious reassessment of their capacity of detecting feelings. This music is achingly stunning, never really hostile despite an often confrontational appearance, a sensitively portrayed rebellion against the concealment of pain, which – thanks to Brötzmann’s magnanimous lungs – becomes as beautiful as love itself.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
STEVE LANTNER QUARTET – Given – Live In Münster
HatOLOGY
Heading a line-up comprising Allan Chase on alto, baritone and soprano sax, Joe Morris on double bass and Luther Gray on drums, Steve Lantner determinedly tries to maintain a courteous detachment from the extremes of excessively discordant liberty and overly cosy consonance. That the pianist insists in defining this music “jazz” in an era in which many – including yours truly – are frowning as soon as that word’s heard is nothing but commendable, especially because Lantner knows where he is and what he wants in any circumstance.
The set, recorded in 2007 at the 21st International Jazzfestival Münster, is a fine demonstration of inter-reliant playing, the musicians obeying to a logic of clarity even in the rare moments in which the musical threads become more knotted. In particular, there seems to be a tendency to the superimposition of instantaneous rapid themes and sudden sketches that, for the large part of the program, sound – at least to some extent - planned in advance, such is the controlled discipline emerging from the sum of the parts. Each member of the group gains additional visibility in infrequent solo spots, none of them exaggerating in self-admiration during those occasions. The interplay is responsibly compact, occasionally quicksilver-ish and, generally speaking, highly gratifying.
Lantner is endowed with a soberly momentous technique, articulated figurations ranging from enthusiastic sparkle to crepuscular contemplation. This charisma never turns out to be overwhelming or dictatorial, the leader often comfortable in acting as a sheer harmonic colourist, letting the flow go on without excessive interference. Chase is a refined saxophonist whose firm timbre is informed by an imperturbable independence which nevertheless allows repeated nods to the time-honoured heroes of the instrument, complex melodic flavours and ever-skilful outbursts favouring a constantly agreeable circulation of high-quality tone. Morris is the owner of a inimitable style on the bass, plucked with equal doses of bad intentions and guitar-derived designs, a sensitive smartness not once deflated by cheap tricks. Gray is flawlessly efficient, always discerning in scansions that appear relatively untarnished despite their traditional origin, propulsive tasks performed with brisk dynamism and evident competence throughout.
This reporter is still interested in hearing good jazz after all, perennial suspicions and doubts notwithstanding, and it took a mixture of instrumental masters and deep spirit to revive that curiosity. This quartet has managed to make me appreciate old things again, principally due to the fact that they actually shine under the light of fresh individuality.
Heading a line-up comprising Allan Chase on alto, baritone and soprano sax, Joe Morris on double bass and Luther Gray on drums, Steve Lantner determinedly tries to maintain a courteous detachment from the extremes of excessively discordant liberty and overly cosy consonance. That the pianist insists in defining this music “jazz” in an era in which many – including yours truly – are frowning as soon as that word’s heard is nothing but commendable, especially because Lantner knows where he is and what he wants in any circumstance.
The set, recorded in 2007 at the 21st International Jazzfestival Münster, is a fine demonstration of inter-reliant playing, the musicians obeying to a logic of clarity even in the rare moments in which the musical threads become more knotted. In particular, there seems to be a tendency to the superimposition of instantaneous rapid themes and sudden sketches that, for the large part of the program, sound – at least to some extent - planned in advance, such is the controlled discipline emerging from the sum of the parts. Each member of the group gains additional visibility in infrequent solo spots, none of them exaggerating in self-admiration during those occasions. The interplay is responsibly compact, occasionally quicksilver-ish and, generally speaking, highly gratifying.
Lantner is endowed with a soberly momentous technique, articulated figurations ranging from enthusiastic sparkle to crepuscular contemplation. This charisma never turns out to be overwhelming or dictatorial, the leader often comfortable in acting as a sheer harmonic colourist, letting the flow go on without excessive interference. Chase is a refined saxophonist whose firm timbre is informed by an imperturbable independence which nevertheless allows repeated nods to the time-honoured heroes of the instrument, complex melodic flavours and ever-skilful outbursts favouring a constantly agreeable circulation of high-quality tone. Morris is the owner of a inimitable style on the bass, plucked with equal doses of bad intentions and guitar-derived designs, a sensitive smartness not once deflated by cheap tricks. Gray is flawlessly efficient, always discerning in scansions that appear relatively untarnished despite their traditional origin, propulsive tasks performed with brisk dynamism and evident competence throughout.
This reporter is still interested in hearing good jazz after all, perennial suspicions and doubts notwithstanding, and it took a mixture of instrumental masters and deep spirit to revive that curiosity. This quartet has managed to make me appreciate old things again, principally due to the fact that they actually shine under the light of fresh individuality.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
DENMAN MARONEY QUINTET – Udentity
Clean Feed
Pianist (or “hyperpianist”? Hold on, please) Denman Maroney is clearly trustful in the abilities of an average mind. Trying to explain the polyrhythmic concepts that underscore the large part of this music, he says that “there are at least two and more often three tempos going; the listener is free to choose which one(s) to relate to”. Perhaps this musician is not aware of the fact that the majority of a typical audience is not even able to stay anchored to a rudimentary 4/4 with a couple of shifted accents, let alone a superimposition of composed metres. Many pathetic characters come out with various kinds of bullshit about complex mathematic “mysteries” underlying the perfection of the universe, yet they could not name an interval or an elementary beat if threatened at gunpoint. Such sorts of involuntary victims of artistic diversity are not likely to be grateful for the labyrinthine qualities of this excellent album. Hell, this group doesn’t swing, if not for an allowed minimum.
Right, the hyperpiano. Besides numerous interlocking figurations executed with concentrated investigational attitude, Maroney – who appears positively gifted with a scintillating musicality coming from the insides of his brain - frequently plays the “regular” keyboard with a hand while enjoying the pleasures of extended techniques with another, the whole enhanced by the exploitation of several objects on the strings which generate “complementary overtones that move in contrary motion, one down toward the fundamental and the other up toward infinity”. Already fantasizing in regard to enhancement of awareness and realization? Wrong: the record’s title is the contraption of “undertone identity”, a concept introduced by Harry Partch which is too complicated to tackle in a sheer review. You can still learn the definition and use it in your intellectual conversations: nobody - except a few brighter individuals – go actually checking for the truthful core of these things, otherwise a lot of sapient icons would be swallowed by the very blob of their appalling ignorance.
Let’s not digress, though: the quintet performs fabulously throughout Udentity. Ned Rothenberg (alto sax, clarinets) employs a toothsome transitoriness in the methods applied, alternating altruistic repetition bathed in cutting dissonance and interchangeable anti-patterns which dignify the entire timbral tissue. He’s perfectly corresponding to the trumpet of Dave Ballou, who on a different side of the blowing spectrum avoids any kind of hypertrophic irresponsibleness, privileging lines that – although extremely respectful of the composer’s original plan – shine for intelligent restraint. If Michael Sarin’s drumming is entirely perfect for the overall design of these creations, his sober delivery a true injunction against the smell of moth-eaten "flexibility" characterizing the bulk of jazz drummers, bassist Reuben Radding is to be admired both as a solid donor of corpulent foundations for the general structure and an extemporaneous originator of bedazzling melodic sketches in places where an arcoed elegy is probably going to lead a sensitive receiver to deeper perceptions than an innocuous “pulse”.
Just to give a vague idea of how this stuff sounds, let me tell you that those whose ear-training includes Stravinsky and Zappa should greet this CD pretty warmly. Maroney has managed to tickle our interest with complications that sound good, lively, natural, without a hint of agony. Discomposure and angst are to be found somewhere else; here, we only appreciate an outstanding collective control over a series of well-developed strategies.
Pianist (or “hyperpianist”? Hold on, please) Denman Maroney is clearly trustful in the abilities of an average mind. Trying to explain the polyrhythmic concepts that underscore the large part of this music, he says that “there are at least two and more often three tempos going; the listener is free to choose which one(s) to relate to”. Perhaps this musician is not aware of the fact that the majority of a typical audience is not even able to stay anchored to a rudimentary 4/4 with a couple of shifted accents, let alone a superimposition of composed metres. Many pathetic characters come out with various kinds of bullshit about complex mathematic “mysteries” underlying the perfection of the universe, yet they could not name an interval or an elementary beat if threatened at gunpoint. Such sorts of involuntary victims of artistic diversity are not likely to be grateful for the labyrinthine qualities of this excellent album. Hell, this group doesn’t swing, if not for an allowed minimum.
Right, the hyperpiano. Besides numerous interlocking figurations executed with concentrated investigational attitude, Maroney – who appears positively gifted with a scintillating musicality coming from the insides of his brain - frequently plays the “regular” keyboard with a hand while enjoying the pleasures of extended techniques with another, the whole enhanced by the exploitation of several objects on the strings which generate “complementary overtones that move in contrary motion, one down toward the fundamental and the other up toward infinity”. Already fantasizing in regard to enhancement of awareness and realization? Wrong: the record’s title is the contraption of “undertone identity”, a concept introduced by Harry Partch which is too complicated to tackle in a sheer review. You can still learn the definition and use it in your intellectual conversations: nobody - except a few brighter individuals – go actually checking for the truthful core of these things, otherwise a lot of sapient icons would be swallowed by the very blob of their appalling ignorance.
Let’s not digress, though: the quintet performs fabulously throughout Udentity. Ned Rothenberg (alto sax, clarinets) employs a toothsome transitoriness in the methods applied, alternating altruistic repetition bathed in cutting dissonance and interchangeable anti-patterns which dignify the entire timbral tissue. He’s perfectly corresponding to the trumpet of Dave Ballou, who on a different side of the blowing spectrum avoids any kind of hypertrophic irresponsibleness, privileging lines that – although extremely respectful of the composer’s original plan – shine for intelligent restraint. If Michael Sarin’s drumming is entirely perfect for the overall design of these creations, his sober delivery a true injunction against the smell of moth-eaten "flexibility" characterizing the bulk of jazz drummers, bassist Reuben Radding is to be admired both as a solid donor of corpulent foundations for the general structure and an extemporaneous originator of bedazzling melodic sketches in places where an arcoed elegy is probably going to lead a sensitive receiver to deeper perceptions than an innocuous “pulse”.
Just to give a vague idea of how this stuff sounds, let me tell you that those whose ear-training includes Stravinsky and Zappa should greet this CD pretty warmly. Maroney has managed to tickle our interest with complications that sound good, lively, natural, without a hint of agony. Discomposure and angst are to be found somewhere else; here, we only appreciate an outstanding collective control over a series of well-developed strategies.
Friday, 6 November 2009
STEFAN KEUNE / HANS SCHNEIDER / ACHIM KRÄMER – No Comment
FMP
Rather unabashedly, without thinking too much about the contingency of a stylistic connotation of their efforts, saxophonist Keune, bassist Schneider and drummer Krämer present a set of tracks that run the whole creative gamut of a format which may find its roots in a distant past, but in the right hands is still capable of delivering sharply dazzling instances of germ-free inventiveness. Following the fundamental principles of open-eared interplay, the musicians manage to concurrently generate a coherent logic of extemporaneous independence and respect the few rules of a jazz-tinged rendezvous that discards conventional savoir faire, piercing acumen and vivid perceptiveness informing the entire record.
Keune, who plays sopranino, alto and baritone, spits out short notes and brief outbursts whose character tends to the hysterical, at times hilarious side of things. He never irritates, though, his musicality deriving from a succession of microscopic messages and unobservant declarations that render the instrument a means for a lethally effective devastation of comfort. A style that nevertheless remains somewhat rational, a firm mind giving birth to utter instability, which is an important plus in music. The ruptures and subsequent reconstructions generated by Schneider and Krämer appear as the logical consequence of an unpronounced agreement, impartiality and vigorous fervour underlining a lucid madness that either warrants wild executions of instantaneous concepts or uncloaks a kind of tidy neatness which makes even the most rebellious discharge emerge as a smart reproach to the doubter.
The way in which these people keep fracturing rhythmic bones, altering melodic designs and throwing conventions away is both commendable for bravery and enjoyable for the quality of the playing. There’s not a moment in which the material sounds tired: every single event counts and all together they form a unique example of unselfish instrumental (de)synchronization. A wonderful aid for solitary fights against boredom, No Comment is highly recommended to regain a measure of trust in liberated expression, its title an ideal response to the stale dogmatic behaviour shown in recent years by silent gurus and pensive nullities.
Rather unabashedly, without thinking too much about the contingency of a stylistic connotation of their efforts, saxophonist Keune, bassist Schneider and drummer Krämer present a set of tracks that run the whole creative gamut of a format which may find its roots in a distant past, but in the right hands is still capable of delivering sharply dazzling instances of germ-free inventiveness. Following the fundamental principles of open-eared interplay, the musicians manage to concurrently generate a coherent logic of extemporaneous independence and respect the few rules of a jazz-tinged rendezvous that discards conventional savoir faire, piercing acumen and vivid perceptiveness informing the entire record.
Keune, who plays sopranino, alto and baritone, spits out short notes and brief outbursts whose character tends to the hysterical, at times hilarious side of things. He never irritates, though, his musicality deriving from a succession of microscopic messages and unobservant declarations that render the instrument a means for a lethally effective devastation of comfort. A style that nevertheless remains somewhat rational, a firm mind giving birth to utter instability, which is an important plus in music. The ruptures and subsequent reconstructions generated by Schneider and Krämer appear as the logical consequence of an unpronounced agreement, impartiality and vigorous fervour underlining a lucid madness that either warrants wild executions of instantaneous concepts or uncloaks a kind of tidy neatness which makes even the most rebellious discharge emerge as a smart reproach to the doubter.
The way in which these people keep fracturing rhythmic bones, altering melodic designs and throwing conventions away is both commendable for bravery and enjoyable for the quality of the playing. There’s not a moment in which the material sounds tired: every single event counts and all together they form a unique example of unselfish instrumental (de)synchronization. A wonderful aid for solitary fights against boredom, No Comment is highly recommended to regain a measure of trust in liberated expression, its title an ideal response to the stale dogmatic behaviour shown in recent years by silent gurus and pensive nullities.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
THE BUREAU OF NONSTANDARDS – The Bureau Of Nonstandards
Onezero
Kevin C. Smith utilizes circuit-bent machinery, including Texas Instruments’ Speak & Spell and Speak & Read, Power Gear Voice Changer and a fabulous Tiger Electronics Furby (a toy that had a great success in this reviewer’s land of retards a while ago). The sounds he generates are processed in real time via laptop by Maurice Rickard, the whole without additional overdubs or subsequent interventions. This results in a captivating record, halfway through serious electronica and a total joke, wealthy in good humour (those modified voices are a gas indeed) but, surprisingly, also connecting to deeper points of view.
Drones are not omitted yet belong to the evil-tempered, malformed kind, suddenly turning into ill-disposed creatures willing to pickpocket a saint’s patience, or bloodthirsty regenerations of preposterously unpropitious frequencies emitted by tiny fiends endowed with musicality to spare. If you give the CD to your children, they might grow to be a type of mini-nerd who at least should be a little more quick-minded than their “brain-melted-in-front-of-a-Playstation” schoolmates. Seriously, this stuff is worthy of attention, especially after knowing that all the pieces were improvised in live contexts (always in Smith’s hometown: Pittsburgh, PA). Despite the low-budget sort of cleverness, we receive absolute originality in exchange. Go for it - and play loud.
Kevin C. Smith utilizes circuit-bent machinery, including Texas Instruments’ Speak & Spell and Speak & Read, Power Gear Voice Changer and a fabulous Tiger Electronics Furby (a toy that had a great success in this reviewer’s land of retards a while ago). The sounds he generates are processed in real time via laptop by Maurice Rickard, the whole without additional overdubs or subsequent interventions. This results in a captivating record, halfway through serious electronica and a total joke, wealthy in good humour (those modified voices are a gas indeed) but, surprisingly, also connecting to deeper points of view.
Drones are not omitted yet belong to the evil-tempered, malformed kind, suddenly turning into ill-disposed creatures willing to pickpocket a saint’s patience, or bloodthirsty regenerations of preposterously unpropitious frequencies emitted by tiny fiends endowed with musicality to spare. If you give the CD to your children, they might grow to be a type of mini-nerd who at least should be a little more quick-minded than their “brain-melted-in-front-of-a-Playstation” schoolmates. Seriously, this stuff is worthy of attention, especially after knowing that all the pieces were improvised in live contexts (always in Smith’s hometown: Pittsburgh, PA). Despite the low-budget sort of cleverness, we receive absolute originality in exchange. Go for it - and play loud.
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