East End Review

Tag: Henry Jones

  • Chris Laurence Quartet review: Invisible polymath

    Jazzmen: The Chris Laurence Quartet
    Jazzmen: The Chris Laurence Quartet

    Bassist and bandleader Chris Laurence is something of a genre-spanning polymath. He has been principal bassist with the Academy of St Martin in the Fields, is a regular collaborator with Kenny Wheeler, Stan Sulzmann and John Surman in the jazz world, and has recorded with Elton John and Sting. He was joined for this Vortex gig by Frank Ricotti (vibraphone), Martin France (drums) and John Paricelli (guitar), who between them have played with Robbie Williams, M People and Joni Mitchell.

    The set list provided a nod to many of Laurence’s former band mates and it wasn’t long before they were ensconced in a Sulzmann track entitled ‘Jack Stix’. This started with a plangent bass motif that was soon joined by some extended chords on the vibes. The ethereal swirling of the latter and the relatively free bass gave things a rather amorphous air, as if to provide an introduction to the palette they were about to paint with. The drums then joined in, fairly free at first, and gradually boiled things down to a focused groove as Paricelli’s chorus-saturated tone complemented the texture, giving rise to a more unified form to which an intricate guitar solo was appended.

    This passage from relative freedom to form was to become a key theme for the rest of the gig. This antecedent freedom was never harsh or abrasive however, I imagine partly due to the naturally soporific qualities of the vibes as much as the way they were being employed. Kenny Wheeler’s The Long Waiting saw a reverb-laden Paricelli sketch a deliberately ill-defined outline of the melodic centre, to which the swaying vibes were added, before things were tightened up by the firm pulse of the rhythm section. The dynamics of this transition from freedom to form were interesting. A rich, possibly boomy bass provided the bottom end, whilst the vibes’ spacey modulation was offset against the more incisive angularity of the guitar. It was the drums that fully underpinned the unity of the group’s emerging form however, and much like he has done on recordings such as Mark Lockheart’s Big Idea, Martin France laid down grooves of drum and bass intensity whilst always being in and never on the music.

    Things continued in this vein with Wheeler and Surman pieces before they broke into Paricelli’s ‘Scrim’. This was a personal highlight which saw France unleash flurries of notes in 5/4, providing Paricelli with the ballast to let rip a solo of Scofield-esque bite.

    Musicians like these are vital to the music ecosystem. They support the commercial world, then get down to the real business unsung in small gigs. If anyone fancies checking these guys out (and/or escaping the football), three of this band are joined by Stan Sulzmann (sax) and John Taylor (piano) on 13 July at the Vortex.

    Review of Chris Laurence Quartet at the Vortex on 21 June.

  • Yoko Ono? Oh yes!

    Yoko Ono at Cafe Oto. Photograph: Dawid Laskowski
    Yoko Ono at Cafe Oto. Photograph: Dawid Laskowski

    Do some free association on Yoko Ono and what do you get? John Lennon, New York, the Beatles’ split, world peace, dark glasses, bed-ins, Fluxus/performance art. Looming over all of these is John’s shadow, and the fact she may be viewed by many as an appendage to his latent messianic complex. Yoko herself may well be aware of this, as much of the evening involved a febrile self-explanation that at times boiled over into self-justification.

    This started explicitly – not just in the sense of the opening video close up of some ambulant buttocks with interstitial vulva in evidence – but with a collaged biopic accompanied by a succinct narration: “Yoko is provocative, confrontational and human”. We saw Yoko playing piano aged around five, the bed-in with swarming press photographers, Yoko the flâneur in New York, and then her naked body being traipsed over by a fly.

    Just as the fly was preening itself over her mons pubis, the real Yoko appeared to rapturous applause, a sprightly 4′ 10” in trainers and dark glasses. The expounding then continued, with brief descriptions of her views on fracking and an obligatory nod to some perennial world peace obfuscation, interspersed with instructions on “not to try” when hugging, dancing and making love. In something of a knight’s move, there was a stern word about not taking photos during the show.

    Then the music started. Stellar names get stellar backup, and tonight Yoko was joined by Thurston Moore (guitar) and Steve Shelley (drums); both members of recently disbanded Sonic Youth.

    Something other than self-explanation next supervened: the fact that Yoko is 81 and in her dotage. This was born out by a ticking wrist watch held to Moore’s neck pickup, to which Yoko plangently listed all the things she might one day miss, “clouds, mountains, trees, snow, city lights”. Shelley joined the throng with rich cymbal swells, before Yoko deflated everything with a long sigh.

    This sigh together with her vocal delivery – bridging the gap between narration and music – combined the fly-on-the-pudenda film, led me to the possibly facile idea that in inhabiting the liminal zone between music, performance art and – on this occasion at least – short film, appraisal through the prism of one of these was impossible. It did however allow Yoko to exploit their intersections to maximum effect.

    This was exemplified by the next piece. It started with a fragile call and response between Yoko’s octogenarian pulmonary reserve and a tremulous metallic sliver from Moore’s Fender. Both were mirrored physically with Yoko exhorting Moore with outstretched arms, just as his body contorted with every stuttered response. This then built up as the fly decamped to Yoko’s areola, whilst she began to unfurl a spectrum of abstract ‘ahhh’s’ ranging from sarcastic hyena snicker to paroxysmal post-lacrimal gasping. The emerging cacophony plus its associated delivery neatly mirrored what was being projected. The buzz of the fly, Yoko’s scissors cutting black cloth and a purple bra being unclasped were all obliquely recreated by the band.

    Things then swirled around on this frenetic inter-disciplinary level before the denouement really sealed things. Yoko and Moore prowled around each other – both wearing but not playing guitars – in a fashion combining some kind of mating ritual with hunching Japanese deference, before they suddenly came together clashing strings with the ensuing feedback abruptly bringing things to a close.

    Yoko has been through a lot (bereaved; estranged from a child; never viewed outside prism of John; mauled by popular press), and it is inspiring that at 81 she’s still going for it. If not exactly liberated from this historical baggage herself, seeing her deal with it in her cross-disciplinary way was in itself liberating. Would Yoko Ono be who she is without John Lennon? An answer in the negative would be a truism, not a criticism. After all she’s human – and provocative and confrontational.

    Yoko Ono played Cafe Oto, 18-22 Ashwin Street, E8 3DL on 23 March 2014. 

  • BB&C at the Vortex Jazz Bar – review

    Jazz trio BB&C. Photograph: Peter Gannushkin
    Jazz trio BB&C. Photograph: Peter Gannushkin

    Laboured synaesthesic analogy: if main stream Sanborn-esque smooth horn is saccharin or aspartame, then Tim Berne’s sax is something far less instantly accessible and cloying. You know when you eat really strong cheddar and the salt and calcium crystals make your gums itch? That’s what Tim Berne is approaching. I like strong mature cheddar. I think I like Tim Berne- the think outlining the limits of the analogy as much as reluctance to wholeheartedly condone him.

    If you listen to Jazz on 3 now and again or check out the jazz press, you will often hear Berne referred to in exalted tones. He is an American saxophonist who made a few records for Columbia (corporate) and since has done his own thing with whoever he pleases. Last month he was in London for the Vortex gig with a trio comprising Jim Black on drums and Nels Cline on guitar.

    He started proceedings with a deadpan jibe at the establishment, joking he had two tickets to see Prince at Ronnie Scott’s that he was happy to give away to whoever was interested. There was then a brief entrée with some high register squawking to scare off TAFKAP’s symbol, before things really got down to business, Berne leading the charge with a plastic water bottle rammed in his sax’s bell.

    What followed was around 75 minutes of constant noise; a few identifiably separate contrasting motifs but mainly an attention-maintaining cycle of loud/soft/loud/soft.

    During the deluge drummer Jim Black played with very open arms, taking the focus away from any immediately bass/snare/hi-hat groove and towards the rhythmically free; Nels Cline shouted into his guitar’s pickup through a strange red tub (conceptually free); Berne put various things in his bell and blew it hard (texturally free). The loud/soft cycle provided an inevitable tension and release. Given the level of abstraction being meted out however, it was sometimes hard to discern this release on all levels (rhythmic/textural/conceptual). Getting all these components in close apposition may be nigh on impossible with such free music, but on the few occasions when it did happen it was sensational.

    Back to that analogy: saccharin is synthetic, salt and calcium crystals are natural. 95 per cent of pop music is synthetic; the emotions engendered by Tim Berne are natural. He’s not bullshitting. Too much saccharin has a bitter aftertaste, but too much salt will kill you. Few people know the former; everyone knows the latter. And likewise Tim Berne isn’t as famous as Prince.

    The only reservation I have in not wholeheartedly recommending this thing is that when music is too abstruse, it is sometimes hard to get a full handle on it. It also polarises opinion. Most people hate it; a small minority profess to love it, but in doing so perhaps have the same level of understanding as a latter day pogonophile has of Victorian times. I’d say it opens a door it’s worth looking into – I just haven’t gone inside yet.