Author Archives: Joseph Neff

On Figure Of Eight, Scotland-native and NYC-based tenor saxophonist Ben Bryden leads a band featuring the guitar of fellow UK-to-NYC transplant Phil Robson, the bass of Desmond White, and the drums of Rajiv Jayaweera, the rhythm section current New York residents both originally from Australia, with Bryden’s horn flanked on two tracks by fellow tenor and long-time collaborator Steven Delannoye. The record has moments of accessible warmth that can harken back to the heyday of post-bop but with sustained passages that are undeniably new in conception. It’s out now on compact disc and digital through Circavision Productions.

Along with Figure of Eight’s generally inviting comportment, the chosen instrumental configuration of tenor, guitar, bass and drums only serves to deepen ties to modern jazz’s classic era, though in reality, this specific lineup, with guitar sans piano or organ, isn’t as historically common as one might think. However, it was the set of axes featured on Sonny Rollins’ comeback classic of 1961 The Bridge (with Jim Hall on guitar, Bob Cranshaw on double bass and Ben Riley on drums), and as Ben Bryden’s latest plays, a certain compatibility with the Rollins album does become discernible.

These qualities are far from overwhelming, though. Much more prominent are elements that are decidedly non-jazzy, and immediately so, as “Luskentyre,” named after a beach in Scotland, delivers a brief opening prelude that also stands as a bookend with the record’s outro “Bostadh,” which is also titled after a Scottish beach. The promo text mentions post-rock, and while that’s not off-target, please don’t get the idea that Bryden and company have navigated into Tortoise territory.

We are somewhat nearer to the work of Sigur Rós, and yet fleetingly so, as “Cold Shoulder” instead flows with a jazziness that’s distinctly urbane; Bryden’s playing is lyrical, Robson establishes his deftness with clean, ringing tones and note runs, and the rhythm section is crisp but unperturbed, though the atmosphere thankfully withstands getting too velvety.

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As a composer, vocalist, songwriter, producer, keyboardist, and electronic music pioneer, Ryuichi Sakamoto has accumulated a substantial list of achievements since emerging as part of the 1970s Japanese scene. A member of the Yellow Magic Orchestra, all of his solo recordings postdate the release of that outfit’s debut except one, which came out in 1978 a month prior to YMO’s eponymous first LP. It delivers an occasionally fascinating look at the artist before his ’80s rise in profile, but Thousand Knives of Ryuichi Sakamoto has never been an easy find in stores; in a sweet turn, Wewantsounds has reissued it on LP and CD, the first time in decades that it’s been available physically outside Japan.

In the promotional text for Becoming Peter Ivers, the RVNG Intl. label’s fresh archival release of demos from the late singer-songwriter, the subject gets quoted: “Demos are often better than records,” with Ivers adding, “More energy, more soul, more guts.” It’s a sentiment in which I am in accord, and I mention it as this idea can easily be adjusted and applied to an artist or band’s debut recording, in part due to a lack of streamlining that can result from the desire to expand upon early success.

Conversely, first albums (or EPs, or 45s even) can sometimes be formative, modest, and even generic affairs that do little or nothing to portend what is on a musician’s discographical horizon. Occasionally, the opportunity to record comes too early, but artists are unlikely to turn down the chance, either because they think the time is ripe, or they realize that the option may not arise again.

Thousand Knives of Ryuichi Sakamoto follows a more productive path, as its motions of creative growth, while surely not eclipsing Sakamoto’s later recordings in worth, are quite pleasurable in how they help inject color into a portrait of the young artist. Additionally, the LP directly connects to Haruomi Hosono’s Paraiso, which was issued in April of ’78.

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Albert Collins hailed from Texas, and he had the blues. His biggest fame as a guitarist came during the 1980s but his tenure as a performer and recording artist spanned all the way back to the late-‘50s. Truckin’ with Albert Collins serves up a very nice collection of his mid-‘60s work, and its chapter one in the story of a major electric blues figure.

It was a long run of albums for Alligator that finally brought Albert Collins sustained and much deserved recognition, but prior to his association with that long-serving Chicago-based indie he’d already achieved the status of a Texas master. Along with T-Bone Walker, Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown, Freddie King, and Lightnin’ Hopkins, Collins is an essential component in the Lone Star State’s post-World War II blues progression, and his pre-Alligator material reveals an artistry that thrived on versatility and yet was also quite focused.

However, noting the man’s rise in stature via Bruce Iglauer’s label shouldn’t suggest that Collins was doing his thing under a shroud of total obscurity during the ‘60s, or conversely that the ascension via Alligator was instantaneous (far from it; it was only in the late-‘80s that he was able to pay someone else to drive his tour bus.) The guitarist certainly had his moments during the ‘60s blues boom, and the record that established him as a force was his single for the TCF/Hall label “Frosty.”

It’s been awarded with the distinction of selling a million copies, though it apparently never landed on any national chart, so it’s not easy to check that claim’s veracity. And rather than tally-up a quick surge of retail momentum, the lithe instrumental instead found a steady audience by exploring terrain similar to the Kings Freddie and B.B., with Collins tapping into a blues sensibility completely lacking in anachronistic qualities.

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Los Angeles punk mainstays Fear will be forever defined by the anti-social expressions of their 1982 album The Record. Many thousands cherish that disc, while others evaluate it as the locus of obnoxious fakery. But those who completely dismiss them shouldn’t do so without hearing their 1978 single “I Love Livin’ in the City” b/w “Now Your Dead,” for both musically and in terms of attitude it paints a distinct portrait of the group’s early development.

The general consensus on The Record finds it ranking very high in the punk rock pantheon, but after going back again to recheck, I must admit that I’ve never felt it’s all that great. Actually, I’d rate it as only moderately good, at best. Yes, the LP is loaded to the gills with historical importance and does have enough moments that I’ve kept a copy around, but the only time the thing’s gotten play in this house over the last few decades is when I would periodically feel the need to reassess my evaluation in the face of other’s rampant enthusiasm.

This happened more than just once or twice, and on a few occasions my viewpoint was met with something other than just disagreement. Instead I received stares of deep incomprehension, like I’d just called Michael Jordan an okay shooting-guard or Shakespeare a middling playwright. It was enough to instill some personal doubts. Perhaps it wasn’t The Record; maybe the problem was with me. But each time I pulled it out the same conclusion was drawn, and until just recently it has spent roughly a dozen years tucked away on the shelf.

However, I will agree that a significant part of my reaction does come down to personal considerations. Specifically, I didn’t get to hear it until around 1987 or so. If I’d been a late teenager when The Record kicked up its first clouds of dust, it might’ve been a gripping experience. But in 1982 I was just peaking into the doorway of adolescence, with my musical heroes the predictable suburban standbys Zeppelin and Sabbath. If someone had played The Record for me then, my reaction would’ve naturally held some measure of, well, fear, but it surely would’ve been overtaken by a much greater sense of bafflement.

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Led by singer-songwriter Andy Cabic, Vetiver has been at it for well over fifteen years, with new album Up on High the outfit’s seventh full-length. The sound is rooted in folk-rock, though these fresh ten selections expand the template with touches of soft rock, college rock, indie rock, and classic rock intermittently nodding toward country rock. All these elements might suggest a patchwork if not a hodgepodge, but the disc is a focused affair, and if easygoing it avoids faltering into the overzealously mellow. It’s out November 1 through Mama Bird Recording Co.

I’ve mentioned it before in this space regarding other artists, but my first taste of Vetiver came via 2004’s The Golden Apples of the Sun, the limited-edition (1,000 copies) Devendra Banhart-compiled CD made available through the Arthur magazine imprint Bastet. A decidedly freak-folky excursion with numerous intermingled strands of New Weird Americana, Vetiver’s “Angel’s Share” opened the set, and due to its curator’s strong taste, the comp remains one of best examples of the field’s consistency and breadth.

Flash forward to 2005 and Vetiver were found on the CD included with the literary periodical The Believer’s annual music issue, then in its second year. The amount of overlap between that covers-themed disc and The Golden Apples of the Sun was considerable; along with Vetiver, who delivered a sweet version of Michael Hurley’s “Be Kind to Me,” there was CocoRosie, Josephine Foster, Espers, and ol’ Devendra himself.

This reinforces the impact of the whole New Weird folk experience, but I mainly bring it up to highlight how Vetiver has endured while many others involved in that scene have long since drifted off the radar. With this said, I haven’t been the most diligent follower of Andy Cabic’s material after 2006’s To Find Me Gone (which came after the eponymous ’04 debut). There was Thing of the Past in ’08 for FatCat and two after that for Sub Pop, Tight Knit in ’09 and The Errant Charm in ’11, followed by Complete Strangers for Easy Sound in ’15.

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Nat King Cole’s enduring renown derives from his skill as a vocalist, but he’s also arguably the most underrated of jazz’ great pianists. The seven CDs or ten LPs comprising Hittin’ The Ramp: The Early Years (1936-1943) do a stellar job of highlighting Cole’s keyboard prowess while documenting the growth of his superb trio with guitarist Oscar Moore and bassist Wesley Prince first, and later Johnny Miller. There are also brief visits from the great saxophonists Lester Young and Dexter Gordon and a ton of singing, though the approach lands solidly in a hot and often vocal group zone. It’s out November 1 through Resonance Records in partnership with the Nat King Cole estate.

Back in 1991, Mosaic Records issued The Complete Capitol Recordings of the Nat King Cole Trio, an exhaustive limited-edition set spread across 18 compact discs or 27 vinyl records. It was obviously produced for hardcore jazz nut collectors, the kind of listener who would know that Cole had worked extensively as a musician prior to his career-defining move to Capitol (an association he would maintain throughout his superstardom until the end of his life) but with very few commercial records detailing said period.

Hittin’ The Ramp features jukebox-only discs, private recordings, and a slew of radio transcriptions along with the handful of sessions that resulted in discs that were available for retail purchase, with the vast majority of the selections here officially released for the first time. There is a smidge of overlap with the Mosaic collection, but it doesn’t arrive until LP eight (or CD six) with “Vom, Vim, Veedle” commencing a smattering of cuts for the small Excelsior and Premier labels which were later purchased by Capitol and serve as the kickoff to the Mosaic set.

This repetition isn’t likely to bother owners of The Complete Capitol Recordings one bit, as it’s a miniscule percentage, specifically ten tracks out of Hittin’ The Ramp’s 183. Yes, that’s a lot of music, but slim compared to the behemoth decades-of-discovery scenario presented by Mosaic’s presentation of Capitol’s holdings, though in its vinyl incarnation Resonance’s achievement is also a limited edition.

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Ostinato Records’ impact on retrospective global music discovery has been major. Founded and operated by Vik Sohonie, the label’s initial mark was made through an extensive dive into Haitian sounds followed with equally broad coverage of Somalian and Sudanese music. But recently, the focus has tightened onto short, sweet illuminations of late 20th century developments in Cabo Verdean stuff; the latest is Pour Me a Grog: The Funaná Revolt in 1990s Cabo Verde, which spotlights a wildly rhythmic and accordion-driven generational advancement in the Funaná style with conciseness magnifying the vitality. It’s out October 25 on LP with a 12-pg 12-inch booklet and CD hardcover bookcase with a 20-page booklet.

Grog might put one in mind of pirates, but the term is something of a catchall for certain types of distilled booze, in the case here, a “Cabo Verdean moonshine distilled from sugarcane crushed by bulls.” Alright. Ostinato sum up their informative promo text with advice, specifically to get a glass of grog and “imbibe responsibly, listen carefully, and dance recklessly.” After soaking up the eight selections comprising this set, that recommendation makes total sense.

Ostinato’s journey into the music of Cabo Verde began in 2017 with Synthesize the Soul: Astro​-​Atlantic Hypnotica from the Cape Verde Islands, an 18-track compilation (reviewed in full in this column) documenting the output of the young country’s immigrants as they travelled into Europe (Portugal, France, The Netherlands) and the USA (with Boston given a point of distinction).

Synthesize the Soul’s ample selection was enhanced through diversity, but for the label’s subsequent Cabo Verdean inspections, which began in June of this year with Grupo Pilon: Leite Quente Funaná de Cabo Verde, Ostinato is significantly abbreviating the aural tours, though they are ultimately no less enlightening as a complete package.

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Zonal is the handiwork of Justin Broadrick, he most notably of Godflesh, in partnership with Kevin Martin, aka The Bug, who’s been involved in a slew of projects including most recently King Midas Sound. This duo worked extensively through the 1990s and into the new millennium as Techno Animal, and folks who dug them before are likely to find Wrecked, their long-playing debut under a fresh moniker, very much of interest, especially as it offers six tracks with Philadelphia-based Afro-futurist MC Moor Mother, aka Camae Ayewa, of 700 Bliss and Irreversible Entanglements. It’s out October 25 on double vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Relapse Records.

Wrecked is a record of halves. It’s first six tracks cohere into the collab with Moor Mother outlined above, with the subsequent six the work of Broadrick and Martin alone. This suggests an appreciable level of confidence on the part of the duo, as following the trio portion, a potentially gangbusters team-up as evidenced by Ayewa’s superb contribution to The Art Ensemble of Chicago’s We Are On the Edge released earlier this year, with material lacking in her undeniably powerful presence, could easily risk disappointment.

It turns out the pair’s assurance was not unfounded, though the cuts with Moor Mother do immediately establish this record as something more than a simple recommencement of activities adorned with a fresh handle after a long hiatus; the final Techno Animal full-length, The Brotherhood of the Bomb, came out in 2001 on the Matador label.

Techno Animal were no strangers to collaboration, with their discography including credits from Jon Hassell, Antipop Consortium, dälek, El-P, and Rob Sonic, but with the exception of Symbiotics, their 1999 release co-billed with Porter Ricks (the duo of Thomas Köner and Andy Mellwig), I don’t recall a collab in their discography that’s as extensive as the one undertaken here with Moor Mother.

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Eastern spirituality has inspired a lot of music, with only a small percentage aptly assessed as substantial. An even tinier amount rises to the level of artistry found on Songs from the Bardo, the new release from NYC avant-garde cornerstone Laurie Anderson, multi-instrumentalist, composer and musical director Tenzin Choegyal, and multi-instrumentalist, composer, and climate activist Jesse Paris Smith. Described as a collaborative composition featuring Anderson’s readings from the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the results are contemplative and exploratory without ever meandering into facile formlessness. A major work, it’s out now on 2LP, CD, and digital from Smithsonian Folkways.

It might read as if I’m being unnecessarily hard on music that’s infused with Eastern spiritual-philosophical qualities. Twenty years ago, that would’ve been true, and I’d probably have expressed matters much more harshly (and with less maturity), but in the ever-loving now I’m merely riffing on Sturgeon’s Law (and that’s not to suggest Ted’s maxim is the gospel truth).

I’ll add here that the term Eastern spirituality is a rather severe generalization, so let me highlight the specific; Songs from the Bardo is described by the label as a “guided journey through the visionary text of the Tibetan Book of the Dead,” the enduring masterwork of Nyingma Buddhism, with the intention to open up the philosophy’s traditions to current and future generations as both pure listening and a store of insightfulness.

Accompanying downloads are certainly useful, but for those buyers with working turntables, they are generally inessential. In the case of Songs from the Bardo, which does offer the card with the code, this observation is somewhat arguable, as listening to the music in one uninterrupted stream, having done so now numerous times, feels optimal.

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When the conversation turns to jazz, the integration of tradition and innovation is a reliable topic of discussion. Hey, it’s right there in the two adjectives that make up the title of the sophomore effort from the Tomeka Reid Quartet. Featuring the leader’s cello on nine selections alongside guitarist Mary Halvorson, bassist Jason Roebke, and drummer Tomas Fujiwara, Old New is a superb blend of historical heft, contemporary verve, and unified personal expression. Rather than a tactic faltering into a trope, a high level of quality is sustained, partly because the combination of then and now isn’t belabored or overly codified. Instead, it just sounds natural. The CD and digital are out now on Cuneiform Records.

Make no mistake, in addition to the roles of bandleader, composer and arranger, Tomeka Reid is a player of distinction, and only partially due to her chosen instrument, the cello, persisting as somewhat unusual in the jazz scheme of things. It should come as no surprise that prior to her move into jazz, Reid was focused on classical music, a realm where the cello is much more common.

In the promo notes for this release, Reid mentions that one of her early gateways into jazz was a book of basslines by Rufus Reid (no relation), and one would be hard-pressed to come up with a deeper example of jazz’s core principles than that. She then moved from Washington, DC to Chicago, which stands as one of the enduring hotbeds for the music’s intermingling of tradition and stylistic growth.

There, she met flautist-composer Nicole Mitchell and other members of the AACM (Association for Advancement of Creative Musicians) as she began playing at the Velvet Lounge, a venue then owned and operated by the late and very great tenor saxophonist Fred Anderson. Reid’s contribution to the Art Ensemble of Chicago’s excellent We Are On The Edge: A 50th Anniversary Celebration, released earlier this year, could perhaps be taken as a culmination of her Windy City activities, but really, her work is just as notable for its fluid, evolving trajectory right up to Old New.

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