The Rake Magazine

Brian Blade Fellowship
Seasons of Change
Verve
Release date: April 1, 2008

Blade's ensemble seems heavily influenced by his membership in Wayne Shorter's magnificent but overtly cerebral quartet, which isn't always a good thing. The frequently lethargic pace and finely crafted harmonic and melodic nuances occasionally feel like music that must be listened to for your own good, like a meal fortified with fiber but not very tasty. Praise be, then, to bust-outs like Melvin Butler's gnarly tenor saxophone solo on "Return of the Prodigal Son," which also benefits from guitarist Kurt Rosenwinkel, whose tone and groove are reminiscent of Skunk Baxter on "Reeling In The Years." Like the rest of the disc, the title track is a hit-and-miss magnum opus, which does take advantage of Blade's masterful ability to turn the temperature up and down as a timekeeper. There are some things here I'll want to revisit: Myron Walden's bass clarinet on "Rubylou's Lullaby;" the way "Most Precious One (Prodigy)" apes The Bad Plus, of all people; the found-beauty of "Improvisation," with its pump organ undertow; and the slow build and crescendo of the closer, "Omni." But there's not enough sugar or caffeine to make it addictive in the slightest.

** 1/2 (Two and a half out of five stars)

Charles Lloyd Quartet
Rabo de Nube
ECM

I'm not a diehard Lloyd acolyte. There's some stuff in his huge catalog that is deliriously good, like Flowering and Journey Within from the '60s, and Voice In The Night with Dave Holland, John Abercrombie, and Billy Higgins from the late '90s. But his last one, Sangam, left me cold—a saxophone wankfest through a thicket of beats, laden with faux spirituality that was too pretentious (or perhaps too profound) for me to fathom.

But I'll gush about Rabo de Nube, a live quartet album (something Lloyd used to do regularly four decades ago) in which the 70-year-old sensei may be the most staid and least creative member of his band. The fusillade-oriented approach drummer Eric Harland used in tandem with tabla player Zakir Hussain on Sangam is more effectively propulsive (like Billy Kilson sounded in Holland's band) coupled with bassist Ruben Rogers. Harland steals the show on "Prometheus," supporting Lloyd with a plush density of beats that, like gusts of wind in sails, carries instead of shoves the rhythm. Rogers complements him with enthusiasm and delivers noteworthy solos on the first three songs to boot.

But the best thing about Rabo is how well pianist Jason Moran fits in, and enriches, Lloyd's somewhat ethereal aesthetic. His glancing harmonies on "Prometheus" and inspired blues turn on "Migration of Spirit" are the prelude for his two-part tour de force on "Booker's Garden." His first solo begins regally, but just when it appears headed for cocktail piano clichés, Moran drops in some slightly dissonant, modal phrases, then winds the pace down to a near-standstill, his elegiac moments of near-silence (the piece is a Lloyd's tribute to the late trumpeter Booker Little) slightly upturned at the end. His second solo is the pinnacle of Rabo, an audacious juggling of the offhand funk and boogie woogie (built up from single-note vamps) you might expect from Jaki Byard, and the sort of spectral leaps and resonant flurries that characterize the work of former Lloyd pianists Keith Jarrett and Brad Mehldau, and Harland's superb accompaniment is pomade, glistening the luster.

Lloyd varies between tenor, flute, and, for "Ramanujan," taragato, on which he sounds like Coltrane playing soprano sax. I've generally preferred it when he harkens to his Memphis roots or otherwise plays straight ahead, so his lively variation on "Sweet Georgia Brown" (entitled "Sweet Georgia Bright") is a favorite, along with the lone cover song of the concert, a closing rendition of the title track by Silvio Rodriguez that makes for a soft, lyrical landing.

**** (Four stars)

 

A wide stance is key to surviving a Monotonix show. Keep your feet shoulder-width apart and your arms ready to brace the incessant shock waves of bodies crashing into you. Never lose focus of the strange looking man with a bad perm and pervy mustache. He is not a cast-off from a Starsky and Hutch fan club. He is the singer—a moving target who neglects social graces, like keeping his sweat to himself. The most important rule is to put as much distance as possible between you and the danger zone.

The problem is the danger zone comes to you.

The Israeli trio sets up on the bar floor, giving them full access for intra-audience thrashing. The rig looks worse for wear. The drum kit seems one cymbal crash away from shattering. The guitar looks as if one piece of duct tape was removed the whole thing would break into splinters. The singer appears diabolically insane, and the whole lot looks like they found their clothes in the back alley dumpster. Nevertheless, the perpetually touring band is aching to leave its love bruises on the Twin Cities. And bruise they will with Monotonix' one-two punch of low-brow histrionics.

At a Monotonix show, the slippery threads of controlled chaos constantly threaten to blow loose. The guts of rock and roll kitsch foam up at the first pounding of the kick drum. In the first 30 seconds of Monotonix's set at the Uptown Bar, singer Ami Shalev breaks the first rule of getting a good review: stealing the music journalist's beer and pouring it on the heads of adjacent audience members.

For a half hour they play with disaster and consistently ram into, and on top of, the crowd. With his grossed out and glistening ape-man chest fully exposed, Shalev plants himself on top of the bar and hikes his sweat pants up to his nipples, screaming some nonsense into the microphone no one can decipher. His usual act is to stuff gasoline soaked hankies down his trousers and flame up like a human pyrotechnic. Due to repercussions of the unfortunate 2003 Rhode Island club fire, Shalev has been asked to stub out any fiery intentions for Minneapolis. Tonight he gets his death-taunting kicks by sticking his head into the path of ceiling fan blades. He leaps away unscathed, proving his shamanistic powers of invincibility.

Sounding like a mash up of Black Sabbath, Dio, and a slew of third-rate punk bands, the music is an after thought. Chord progressions are hazy at best. And forget about heartfelt lyrics. They're just meaningless guttural intonations. The three could have had equally mesmerizing careers as magicians or fire-spewing carnival freaks. To them, it's all about the performance. They ride on shock value. That's the genius of their scheme. It takes wise men to get paid to make fools of themselves.

Like most all country-blues artists, Ray Bonneville doesn't try to knock your socks off so much as fit you into a comfortable old pair of shoes. But the Canadian native separates himself from singer-songwriter cliches with a slow but steady revelation of his myriad talents. His (mostly electrical) guitar and harmonica work is economical and wise, abetting vocals reminiscent of JJ Cale for their fine-sandpaper tone and conversational aplomb. What cinches these gifts together, and makes Bonneville such a durably consistent pleasure, is his assured yet humble songwriting.

I've only heard two of the man's six discs, the ones for Red House, Roll it down from 2004 and this year's Goin' by feel. Both are unusually user-friendly, the kind of soundtrack that's jaunty enough to help you cook breakfast or fold the laundry, sufficiently easygoing to climb into the back seat of your brain when other priorities or daydreams emerge, and yet insightful and incisive enough to reward careful listening without a lyric sheet. On each disc, the songs go together, not so much by topic, but, as the second record puts, "by feel." They're generally plainspoken narratives sewn with the classic instrumental braid of country blues, yet enough care has been invested in the craft to yield different shadings, meanings, and resonant riffs with every new spin.

Let's get specific. I love the way Bonneville will occasional tumble for the sheer phonics and punning of songwriting, like the way "Tiptoe Spider" (from Roll it down) is so tiptoe-spidery in its clamber-prancing guitar lines, with the added bonus that the antagonist in the narrative is a fairly creepy character. Or, from the new one, "What Katy Did," which has a birdlike flit--the vocal hopping on the hard vowels while the guitar and bass worry the groove--but also is a case study in trust and intimacy (would you tell a secret?) masquerading as a tale of crime.

I also love the quality of the marriage between the lyrics and the music. On "Walk With Me" (from Roll it down), for example, the sentiment is one of muted infatuation, a guy tamping down his ecstasy to both keep feigning coolness and to protect his vulnerable heart, perfectly expressed not only in the vocal inflections but the gentle spangles in the blues guitar phrases and the extra dollop of elbow grease in the beats. Most of the time, however, Bonneville dawdles for effect. The wistful slide guitar on "Oxford Town" (Roll it down) is perfectly paced for reverie, and even the New Orleans groove of "You Know What I Mean" (Roll it down) stays with you because it feels like its done at 3/4 speed.

Goin' by feel is more spare and New Orleans-centric than Roll it down, and after thinking it didn't measure up, it's begun to suck me in. There are obvious tracks like the postcard/valentine "I Am The Big Easy," with its picaresque recitation of dice-rollin' judges and crawfish boys, and the sleek, cantering rhythm of "Run Josie Run." But lately I'm more taken with the wending "Sabine River," the way it manages to sound simultaneously epic and self-effacing; the taunting edge in the talk-song of "Reckless Feeling;" and the way "Cool Cool Rain" closes the disc with such a palpable sense of relief. They're all like watercolors--not fancy oils, yet something you don't mind encountering as part of your regular routine. And I imagine tonight's (3/21) live show at the Cedar will deepen and expand those impressions.