Jazz Masters

Seeing McCoy Tyner and Wayne Shorter on successive nights at out Rochester Jazz Festival was a reminder that jazz music, as Wynton likes to call it, is our great American art form. More than that, too. Jazz is still alive, because these artists are still creative, still taking their music to new places, still challenging their audience, and not in the least bit content to rely on their reputations, or their exiting body of work.

McCoy is the Rachmaninoff of jazz, with his huge huge sound, his gigantic chords, and his unending cascades of music washing over the hall, carrying everyone off into a hypnotic trance. McCoy is no kid; he’s pushing seventy, but he plays with the energy and dexterity of a young man. Having said that, however, the most remarkable thing about his set was that his young bassist, Charnett Moffett, stole the show. Unbelievable virtuoso playing. Charnett is the son of the great Charlie Moffett, Ornette Coleman’s drummer for many years, back when Ornette was setting everyone’s brains on fire. And while Charnett plays a form of straight-ahead jazz, he plays it like no one I’ve ever seen. It was only a couple years ago that Stanley Clarke came to town with Al DiMeola and Jean-Luc Ponty and dazzled everyone with his playing. But unbelievable as it sounds, Charnett leaves Stanley Clarke far behind. Just an image in the rearview mirror. Setting an electrifying tempo for McCoy, his fingers seem to move at light-speed, but it’s his bowing, and more particularly his percussive use of the bow, striking the strings, making the bass seem like an other-worldly electric guitar, that is unlike any other playing. The overused term, awesome, is really the only way to describe this bassist, because the entire audience sat awe-struck, unable to believe they were actually seeing and hearing what was happening on the stage.

The great contrast between McCoy and Shorter is in their use of space. Or in McCoy’s case, really the absence of space. McCoy’s music has no empty space at all; it is continuous. It may vary in intensity, in texture, in volume, in tempo, but it continuously cascades down on the audience. No doubt this reflects the style of McCoy’s mentor, the great master of modern jazz music, John Coltrane, whose paying was incessant, and usually incessantly urgent. Shorter, on the other hand, having come of age in Miles’ great group of the mid-sixties, makes constant use of open space in his playing and in his compositions. Shorter’s music constantly interrupts itself; it stops and restarts; it pauses; it changes in tempo. And in a couple of the compositions he played tonight, the quiet spaces became a fifth musician on the stage, as much a part of the act as any of the players.

While listening to Shorter, I came to think of him as the Frank Geary of modern music. He has broken everything apart, but then put it all back together. But unlike the avant-guard players of the sixties, who merely broke the old conventions, and seemed to abandon many of the core qualities of great music, Shorter has reassembled his music in a manner that respects all the essential virtues of great music – the melody, the rhythm, the beauty of the playing. It’s all there. Only the difference is that it’s now all mixed up, inside out, and upside down. At first it seems jarring, or broken, or that it doesn’t fit together, but after only a second or two, one realizes that it all fits together. And not only that, it fits together perfectly, and beautifully. This was the most inventive music I’ve heard in a long time.
Shorter’s playing was complimented by a terrific rhythm section, all young guys, anchored by the fabulous Brian Blade on the drums. Brian plays a million miles an hour, but quietly, lightly, often barely skimming the surface of his drums. His playing never overpowered the group, and especially not Shorter. Same was true of the bassist, John Pattitucci, and the pianist Danny Perez. An interesting feature of this group’s playing is that they eschew the typical soloing style of jazz performances. Each of the musicians did perform what might pass as solos, but they were far more fluid, and never seemed to stand out from the group, more like the focus of the music just seemed to shift around the stage.

The big question in my mind is how come these wonderfully creative artists are both around seventy years old? Where are the young players who are willing to challenge their audiences, without worrying about record sales, or airplay? I worry that when Shorter, Rollins, Tyner, Charles Lloyd, and the rest of that generation retire, Jazz may slip into mediocrity, more concerned about its popularity than its artistry. Let’s hope not.

Maltings

The end of March we took a cruise with the boys, and the ship featured a whisky bar named Maltings. Every night, at some point, we’d spend an hour or so with our favorite barman, Mitch, drinking fine whiskies from all over the globe – single malt scotches, of course, small batch bourbons, Irish whiskies, and Canadian blended whiskies.

First, the single malts – Maltings had a wide variety of malts, including several we had never tasted before. Mortlach and Springbank were both worthwhile, but unremarkable. When compared to the spectacular Highland Park 25, which we couldn’t resist at a mere $16 a pour, they didn’t leave much of an impression. However, the same can’t be said of Rosebank 22. Rosebank is a lowland malt, and the other lowlands I have tasted have not had much distinctive character, but Rosebank had a big flavor, and a hint of spice, a bit reminiscent of Talisker. Unfortunately, the Rosebank distillery closed in 1993, so the supply of this scotch is clearly limited, and perhaps as a result of that fact, it now lists retail on the net for almost $200. Despite that, Maltings only charged $8 a pour, barely more than some of the premium bar whiskies. Rosebank became John’s drink of choice, and we probably drank an appreciable fraction of the available world-wide supply by the time the ship docked at week’s end.

In recognition of Mike’s personal preference we also sampled a nice variety of fine bourbons, including the daunting George Stagg, daunting because it comes out of the bottle at an impressive 136 proof. But even though it’s almost pure alcohol, it has a wonderful flavor, very expansive, and surprisingly mellow. Also noteworthy was the Hirsch 16 year old. But the buy of the week was Jim Beam Masterpiece, which Maltings served for a mere $10 a pour. Back home, the first bar where Mike found Beam Masterpiece wanted $45 a glass. And come to find out that it retails for $300 a fifth. The guys at WhiteHouse told me they recently sold two bottles to Dan Marino. Masterpiece was a nice whisky, but Danny is overpaying. If you’re reading this Dan, try Van Winkle, either the 12 year old reserve, or the 15 year old family reserve. You can probably pick up a case of the 12 for about the same price as a single bottle of Masterpiece.

One evening we drank Irish whisky, and although they lack the variety of scotches, and are typically aged for fewer than 10 years, they are all good whiskies at very reasonable prices. John says that when confronted with exorbitant prices for malts at high end city bars, he often opts for Irish whisky, which is always more affordable.

One might be inclined to dismiss the virtue of drinking whisky every night, but I beg to differ. It’s not by accident that Scotch whisky and baseball are both themes of this blog. Both are enjoyable in their own right – think of hot summer evenings, sitting under the stars, watching a ball game and enjoying a beverage and a hot dog; or think about cold and dark winter nights made warm and hospitable by a glass of scotch in front of the fireplace. More than that though, both baseball and whisky are best enjoyed in the fellowship of others, and for me, what better way than with my boys? A night at Fenway, a glass of Lagavullin in the Miracle, what a sweet memory. And the same goes for Maltings, and nights at sea.

Montaigne's Madeleine

The story of Montaigne’s Of Training is unremarkable. M is out riding in a time of civil strife, and collides with another horse and rider. He is thrown to the ground, knocked unconscious for a couple hours, and carried back home. After lying close to death, he recovers, only to lie in great pain for the next several days, during which he apparently reflects on death, its utter novelty, and his inability to prepare for the end of life. This realization gives rise to M’s ruminations that death is the only event for which we cannot possibly be prepared; for everything else, the more we train, the better we get. This little observation is worth taking note of, but would it really justify repeated readings for succeeding generations?

What turns this peculiar essay into something much larger and more noteworthy is its concluding passages, where M describes how this episode led him to a larger and more important discovery – namely, the virtues of the process of self-reflection, its novelty, and its utility. “It is a new and extraordinary pastime…There is no description equal in difficulty to the description of oneself, nor certainly in usefulness.” Although Montaigne claims that much prior writing is essentially self-reflective – “Of what does Socrates treat more largely than of himself?” – He is apparently the first writer to acknowledge that perspective explicitly. And of course, the more well-know and often-read of the Master’s essays are those that openly recognize his process of self-examination.

Thus, M’s fall and recovery become for him the door to his life’s work, just as Proust’s involuntary memories opened the way to the Search for Lost Time. Neither the Madeleine nor the fall from M’s horse are that remarkable, or for that matter, that interesting in and of themselves. And even the next immediate observations – for Proust his childhood come to life again, and for M his recognition of the incomprehensibility of death – are that much more compelling. Rather, for both of them, it is the revelatory process which holds the greatest interest for us. Proust’s involuntary memories lead to his life long reconsideration of his past, of memory, of time, of art, all leading eventually to his immortality. And for Montaigne, his near death leads to self-examination, and the then novel ideas that thinking about one’s self, and committing those thoughts to paper were worthwhile endeavors. Of course, it was that process which led M, just as it did his countryman hundreds of years later, also to find immortality. ”Whoever shall so know himself, let him boldly make himself known by his own mouth.” So well, in fact, that centuries later, we are still reading and knowing Montaigne, and in turn, using him, to learn better about our own selves.