Yoko Miwa -Thelonious Monkfish – 8/5/16

Yoko Thelonious Monkfish August

Yoko’s sets at Thelonious Monkfish are very lively. She’s sensitive to environment, so it’s a different scene to the calming sounds she sends out at her Sunday brunch at Ryles in Inman Square. She’s also sensitive to lineup variation, so tonight’s set, with bassist Sean Farias has different textures to the last one I saw, with The Fringe’s John Lockwood.

Opening with a Sonny Clarke number, “Something Special”, she rides Farias’ long, varnished tones like a tightrope. She’s balancing and moving at the same time. The song is spicy and percussive. She shifts radically to a soft but intense Latin number. She’s limber and spiritual here, pensive, then bursting out with kaleidoscopes of chords up and down the keyboard.

She sandwiches a John Lennon song, “Love” (from his solo 1970 Plastic Ono Band) with two numbers with a hard bop feel, and follows with an original, “Lantern Light.” This is classic Yoko, the yearning, the melancholy sadness, the grandeur and the fireworks displays of arpeggios, for all that continuously listening to her trio, drum and bass, and gently responding.

Yoko started work on a new album in July, with six albums behind her. The progression shows a musician becoming bolder and bolder with each new release. Sometimes jazzier, but also more rocking. She plays a lot of Beatles songs. “It’s funny, my name is Yoko and I play lots of John Lennon songs,” she says. She said there’d be more on the next record, but was coy about which ones. I suggested “Tomorrow Never Knows”, the 1966 acid drenched number from Revolver with lines from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. She smiled. Who knows?

Yoko is radiant and intelligent, with a light sense of humor, and dazzling focus. I have been listening to her for five years. She has never let me down.

TRIchrO – Lilypad -Cambridge – 7/10/16

Eriko Lilypad

TRIchrO

The first number I hear is a waltz, steady, with bright tones from Eriko Mercure on piano, alternating with straight-out funk from Dave Mercure on electric bass, and Mark Fairweather, on drums, switching between heavy thuds, and soft cymbal sweeps. The tone lightens, with Eriko doing soft swing. The tempo keeps changing. It can get elegant and romantic, with the focus on Eriko, her gentle glissandi, sharp chord blocks, contemplative flights up and down the registers. Then there are bluesy aftertastes.

The next number is “Gravity”. It is very geometrical. Circles and squares and jagged lines. Tension builds, and it is a rolling modal workout. Then again it is delicate, ornate, just like Chopin. Eriko plays alone, and she’s everywhere, back to the blues, segueing into Beethoven-like sonata, as the bass breaks in again, likewise alone, but rocking with harmonics and overtones. Fairweather takes his solo, with complex Latin infusions, but solid and syncopated and swinging. The three come together again with fitful bursts and sparks, one flame shooting out of another like a Roman candle. The end is sweet and grand.

There is a serene, serious logic to this music. It’s almost like you are hearing Eriko’s thought work, as if she were writing an essay, stuck on knotty quandaries, working around them into exuberant solutions. It is always stopping and starting, moving from one place to another, and back, with a solid foundation.

She is also playful, like a child playing with blocks, building imaginary villages. Her sources are many, and you are struck by myriad, haunting and enchanting, scenes as you stroll through them. But she keeps playing, rearranging the blocks, so it is always a changing village you are in even within one song.

TRIchrO has stop-on-a-dime rhythms, aromatic warmth, stride and swing, rushes of good energy. Their final number, “Friends From Afar”, is one such rush, where Eriko has the crystal effervescence of Cedar Walton, building one chord on top on another, with a racing pace. You never know where the trio will take you, but you always know where you are.

The City of His Life

G Toss

He lived in a world of books, even as he was just getting up in the morning, his head full of dreams. Even as he hadn’t read a book in about a year, trying out new things, new ways of changing his life, shaking off the stiff habits of his days, the cycles of smoking and writing, the writing of new poems which were just deteriorations and repetitions of old poems, poems of his own, influenced by the poets he liked, those poets so distant to him now, like so many philosophers and novelists.

What did books mean to him? Getting lost in a world, only to realize it was the same world he had left, the same condo with the same shelves, in the same city of the same planet with so many other cities, built and rebuilt, planned and eradicated, wrecked and restructured like so many novels in the bookstores on that same planet, bought and sold again, the shelves laid bare.

So the world spun, and he wrote, anyway, giving up the past, spinning a new web of words, about new things, which were just the old things, perceived in a new way, through the repetitions and the rotting away of the old ways.

He dreamed of the city, how his life had changed, how his books had changed, how the city had changed, the city of his life and his books. The books would go on, even as the city would go on, though his life may end, and this is what mattered. It was like a river, taking on changes of tincture, resisting pollution, taking on tides and currents, but always the same river, reflecting stars and city lights, flowing between banks and towns and mountains. This was all brought to the sea, as the river became part of the sea, the city overlooking it, the city of his life.

The city had changed. The changes of the city were part of his life, as the changes of the river were part of the city, vast, stretching to other continents. So his life stretched to other continents, as his writing would, in coming decades, in coming centuries. This made him happy.

The city was on a river, the River Charles. It had been there for centuries, the wood houses burning, replaced by brick, but always the same knotty, awkward grid of streets, narrow, and quaint, and charming. It was a neighborhood, really, but it was like Rome, with one culture built on top of another, and then another, with glitzy stores and boutiques, young girls strolling the streets with the Italian feel that still defined it, resting comfortably around the colonial signs of its founding.

Polcari's

The city of his life, the writer, seeking the poetry of the Renaissance in the Italian streets. The decay, the ends of so many things. The fitful beginnings. The poetry of acceptance, of what would always be a cauldron or crucible, mix of what he loved and what he could not get away from, the poetry of knowledge, of dwelling, of being. The happiness of a home on a lively but quiet street, sweet, with its share of ghouls, always the low hum of drama.

The books he read gave him dreams, the books he read in the city, with its low hum of drama, the drama of books, the drama of his dreams. He dreamed of the future. He dreamed of the city, the city of the future, which his city was always becoming. So much of his life in it lay in shadows, dismal memories of dark days, but always with keen beams bursting through, threatening to light up the entire scene.

The scenes were the scenes of the drama, the drama was the drama of music, always more alive than books, bringing him into live contact with real people, in bright places late at night. This is what he remembered, the music, the Jazz of the city, the rock of the backstreets. But still it was the books that preserved his memory, so still he lived in a world of books, the world of his music, the world of his dreams.

Monkfish (Yoko)

When he wrote about music, it brought him in touch with a cosmic force. It was much more than his writing on the page, more than any single musician. It was an infinite, thin line of light. It lit up his eyes as the music entered his ears from the stage. A laser energy transmitter itself both ways, from him to musician, and back. He was really part of the music, and the music was part of him. Yoko would smile as he flashed his iPhone camera at her, at the Yamaha piano in the Japanese fusion restaurant, Cale Israel would high kick from his eclectic keyboard, in his band, Cult and Leper, in the Allston basement.

Cale

But he owed this all to books, however dusty and musty, archaic and out of date. These were what gave you style, the elegance of an ornate staircase up which you strode to the eyes of the musician. These were what you created, in the chain of writing going back through the ages. These were what stayed in your dreams, the foundation on which the music stages were built, in the new city, laid upon an older city, and one before that, all one city, all one series of serious music, however, silly, wild, or loud, as all music, even the most sublime, was.

Yoko Miwa Trio – Thelonious Monkfish – Cambridge – 7/1

Monkfish (Yoko)

John Lockwood guests on bass tonight, who is a veteran of staple Boston trio The Fringe. He really anchors this session tonight. Steady, heavy, spiraling the trio sound, which is light and lively tonight. Scott Goulding, on drums, has a crispy swing.

Monfish (Lockwood)

Yoko introduces the group after the first number, “The Touch of Your Lips”, a Bill Evans song, her “favorite, favorite.” The crowd is loud in the restaurant, with much chatter, but the audience is with her. You can tell by the whoop when she says, “My name is Yoko Miwa.”

Monkfish (Goulding)

You never hear the same Yoko Miwa twice. Her tone shifts with her moods, and with your moods. She has a real feel for the blues, which she stomps loud and brash, but she gets morbidly personal, and you listen, often, to her stories with the patience of a lover.

Tonight she is extroverted, outgoing, blithely competing with the audience chatter, enjoying a kind of chatter of her own, with Lockwood and Goulding, on bass and drums. She also has dialogues with herself, exploring the various registers of the keyboard, with the independent hand action she is known for, the left hand throwing fourths and fifths, scattering them like confetti, as her right twists and turns out corkscrew melodies.

Yoko is at her best when she is opening up in the middle of a solo, exploring the deeps of her most personal emotions, bluesy as muddy waters, cutting open diapasons and sonorities as though she were cutting the pulp out of a pineapple, smoothing it all over, like she had just put new sheets on a new bed. She takes you on journeys, down exotic rivers, but she always makes sure you have a nice hotel where you can sleep.

Noisy Summer Night – Make Out Point – 6/18

Make Out Point (Joanna Boools)

Joanna Boools

“Hi am, hi am Joannna Boools, Joanna Boools, I’m going to start right now…” Her voice echoes over a drum track. Soprano tweets like bird chirps, something like a machine gun underwater in the background.

This is the voice of a woman, strong and mellifluous. The whole experience and event has the quality of a voice. Now the sample is a keyboard, sounding like a harpsichord, the very low notes repeated.

She plays in a dingy basement, but the sonorities are grand. You could be at an opera house. Spectral, ghostly, haunting liquid chimes. This feels so good. She embraces you with a soft wall of tubular metal, you are somewhere and nowhere. You just like being here.

Make Out Point (painting)

The tone changes. Funky metallic beats. Subdued, sinister shouts. The funky beats get spacey with repetition, hovering and circling around your mind. Could be a flying saucer, spinning like a hovercraft above a sea.

Make Out Point (applause)

Joanna has fractured soul. It blends and splits with the music. The echoes on the computer and of her own voice swirl. They mix with the shuffling beats, and the rhythms carry the voices, which carry the rhythms, which sand down your own spirit till you can only receive, and accept what she has to offer, which is spiritual, raw, and unendingly sweet.

Make Out Point (Channels)

The Channels

Ian is on bass guitar. He hits hard. The beat is some weird funk, spacey but not out of control. On drums, Nick is playful and rollicking and rolling, bowed like the wood of the hull of a boat. Wes is eking out sharp sparks from his electric guitar. This has a no wave feel, coming out of the same strains where we found GToss, but the rhythms are simpler, and the tunes more melodic.

Wes says Sonic Youth but this is different. More driving. Experimental, yes, but with metal grooves, and dips and dives. Nick’s drumming is very subtle, sometimes hitting very lightly. But it’s cast like wrought iron, and ornate.

Make Out Point (wall)

Each musician contributes equally, one of the nice things about this band. What bass does works with what guitar does, rounded out and capitulated by the drums.

Wes gets some really cool liquid, elastic twangs by holding the notes way up by the bell. He works with these, and it sounds almost like a synthesizer.

The Channels is a classic band, they have a classic feel, the classic feel of a band always reaching out into the future, into the feel of their youth, so you can imagine groups doing stuff like this way back in the sixties, maybe Red Crayola. This is Red Crayola wrung with early eighties New York, but perfectly molded to the basement they are now playing in, the millennial Make Out Point.

Make Out Point (Silk Purse)

Silk Purse

Silk Purse is a NYC band, with members of The Sightings. The first thing you notice is the bassist, Richard, who is choogling (if that’s a word), or that’s what it sounds like; repeated patterns of deep dark woody booms.

Mark is singer and guitarist. His short bursts of shouts sound like electric dog barks. On synth and electronics, Justin echoes these effects, and it’s a wall of noise, with classic metal rhythms.

Mark has played with Aaron Dilloway of Wolf Eyes, and you can hear the latter’s vermin-ridden sound in this band, but this is a straight rock band, very noisy, but still with polish and control.

Make Out Point (duct)

It’s exciting. The rhythms go places. The songs are short, and there’s always a new adventure. Mark has a series of pedals in the floor, and there’s as much action on these as on the strings.

Silk purse is shatters and fragments, soldered together into stained glass panels from a church of the devil. The queer, squeaky, eerie light shines, and you hover around the infernal lips of the goat-footed beast, but you flutter away back like a butterfly, in the beams piercing the glass, or out the window into the light of the new summer.

 

Brendan Murray, Steve Norton, Michael Rosenstein & Arkm Foam – Somerville, 6/12

Murray

Brendan Murray

Microdots in color. Murray’s music puts you in a mellow trance. Very pleasant. Sonic frames getting larger, within other frames, dissipating in the distance, disappearing, reconfigured bold in the foreground, orbits within orbits of a solar system.

Norton

Steve Norton

Steve Norton is divided between the celeste on his right hand, and the electronics on his left. Then he just leaves the knobs buzzing and picks up his bass clarinet, with his signature liquid notes, somehow reminiscent of Eric Dolphy but more classical, like Luciano Berio’s Sequenza, perhaps. He uses harmonics, splitting his reed into two concurrent notes.

There is humor, aggression, but it is as mild as tea. Chromatic arpeggios, rumbling held bass notes.

Muffled recordings of serious voices from a radio, sped up and slowed down. Somehow this is disturbing. But it’s funny. It becomes abstract. Almost just like the timbre of the alto saxophone he is about to pick up.

It is very disconcerting, the way the sax loops and hops, dives with the distorted voice recording in the background. If you listen to him carefully, the sax is very inventive, bright, spirited, spritely and free. But the strange, low voice is a disruption. Then things become strange, strangely pleasant, with his tinkling on the celeste, diatonic, echoing, like a Night Gallery soundtrack.

Steve picks up the contra-alto sax. The lines he plays are mellow and playful. They swing, like Barney Bigard from Ellington. This is the nicest part. It makes you feel calm now, just classic jazz, bent into an avant-garde mold.

Foam

Michael Rosenstein & Arkm Foam

The mood, tense, immediately dissipates as Michael’s gears hum and click. They rotate, like a lawnmower engine. It’s just like my grandfather’s three-acre estate in Connecticut, where I used to ride with him on his sit-on tractor. Foam is liquid, bubbling, and scraping. This is a duet now, sonorous as church bells. Amazing how electro-noise can put you in the mind of nature, especially with Foam, who loves nature, working with it, living with it, a nature boy.

Then there is more tension, tension of a night forest, with owls on the prey. Everything is dark, except where moonlight strikes a stray branch.

It’s a boiling cauldron of emotion, though still quite quiet. Glimpses of calm, but no sense of clear direction. We wait. Blurred, scattershot memories. Harder still to believe we are in a different place now. It’s a road stretching into the sun. It goes on forever.

Life in the sun: there are dogs barking, there is a farm, chickens clucking. The sun sets. All is quiet. The wind blowing the beams of the barn, the creaking, the sounds of passing autos. They take you to the quick and the raw, the headaches and the knots in the flesh, the whole body frazzled; then healed, whole again as the leaves blow in the dark.

Two musicians, sitting still behind boards of electronics, white space with a gray floor, scattered speakers, snare drum, antique keyboard against which a bass clarinet rests. We have been nowhere but inside. But it takes us outside.

Sissy Spacek, Eatin’, Dour – Deep Thoughts -6/8

Sissy Spacek

Sissy Spacek

Sissy Spacek was John Wiese, master and monster of noise, who’s played with Merzbow, and avant jazz sax great Evan Parker. He’s got a duo now, with drums, and a beard, and he plays guitar. It’s just one straight shot of noise, with double screams, rolling drums, and guitar scratched to blood. Then it ends.

Sissy Spacek has done all kinds of things in the past, encompassed on a four disc retrospective a few years ago, so you never know what it’s is going to do, or how long it will play. Wiese is actually an electronic virtuoso, so the key tonight was surprise. Just a blast in your face, and stop. You could say fourteen-year-old kids could do this, and maybe they could; but maybe that’s the point.

Eatin'

Eatin’

The first thing you think about this quartet, with the funky intro, is Red Hot Chili Peppers. The singer’s got those loose, lanky moves, swaying about in front of the stage, but this is another kind of metal as it moves on. Short bursts of barely controlled noise, relentless.

Then the melodies develop. Dark, minor things, but still with abrupt stops, lightning drums and guitar riffs, caveman vocals, dark and husky. The cumulative effect is the wash of a tidal wave on a California beach, leaving the surfboards and babes in bikinis with a primal stretch of sand.

Dour

Dour

Dour starts with a tom rolling over off the stage. They introduce themselves: “Thank you. We’re Spinal Tap.” And they are: this isn’t hair metal from the ’80s, this is classic metal, with a clean, contemporary steel edge.

They vary their tempos, from rumble to race, bass, guitar, and drum. The bassist, tall blonde with short hair, screams in short bursts. The music is largely instrumental. It’s about the juxtaposition of rough textures, the crisscrossing and crashing as the guitarist loops chords like a Blue Angel jet, and the drums gather steam and stop in turn.

This is a metal crowd, lots of black, guy with a shaved head, no moshing, just serious absorption of the hypnotic trance the trio induces with their glacially shifting patterns. This is the venting of rage. You’ve got to vent, and Dour does.

Nate Aronow Nextet – Ryles – 6/3/16

Aronow

The Nextet is a snap perfect jazz rock fusion unit, actually a sextet, with electric guitar and bass, sax, drums, trumpet, and Aronow on electric piano. The sounds come straight out of the ’70s, the height of fusion, but with Latin and R & B flavors, and the music is completely contemporary and fresh.

There are geometric patterns to the band’s interplay, like shifting circles that break and turn into squares and stars and rectangles, laid one on another in a shimmering architecture.

“Ode to the Bicycle” is a title that says it all, the physical, fun exhilaration, the rhythm of the pedals as they ride into a mellow breeze. Aronow raps the lyrics, and it’s funky, with sax punctuations evoking Maceo Parker. The guitarist outlines the tune with octave intervals, and the trumpet puts on the brakes to end the song, like someone pushing the horn on a car.

The next number is soft Latin, with sax dropped for flute. We see why it’s called “Nextet” now. We’re always on the edge of our seats, elbows on the table, anticipating what comes next.

Aronow’s keyboard style is understated. He favors lower and upper ranges, a gentle charm, simple, subtle syncopation, warm, sticky melodies. This is a band of cohesion and flare. It feels good, it’s complex, but you always get what’s going on with an easy ear, open to the mutating patterns and effervescent color changes.

Monday In May – Cale Israel – Cambridge, 5/23

Cale Israel Blue

On a tinny, upright piano in the new, tony, Out of the Blue Too Gallery, Cale has the classic sound of the early 1970s’ singer songwriters – natural, pastel progressions, righteous, meaningful vocals, communication with the audience, humor. You may think Laura Nyro, Billy Joel, Elton John, Joni Mitchell, with jazzy undertones. He varies his tone, with a lilting touch of stride, soft, buttery funk, syrupy romance. He’s lively, upbeat, and outgoing, intimate and warm. He’s done crazy electro-pop in smoky basements in the past, hippy experiments (sometimes naked), he’s always moving, always has charm, he’s always at once familiar and unexpected. People sit on the blue-striped tiled carpet, watching the blue and yellow patterns cross on the screen behind him, this is a nice night.

New Fire: Guerilla Toss, Eraser Stargazer

Eraser Stargazer

Eraser Stargazer

DFA (2015)

“Eraser Stargazer”…. “Cinnamon chocolate”… Guerilla Toss’s new album, Eraser Stargazer, twists and turns in spicy sweet directions. The beat keeps happening. Arian’s guitar patterns stick in your mind, sharp pieces of broken green glass, which Kassie skips around with her tart, sassy singing, elastic as she coos, then does dark things with her throat. Peter keeps giving the music a hard edge, with the beating but listening drums he’s known for, and everything’s knit together like a three-dimensional artwork with intricately crossed strings. The Toss has always gone deep into inventive interplay. This is the album that perfects it, looming with the spirits the band has left behind, but striking into new veins, showing that rock has a future.