Love Comes In Spurts

There is curious pattern of listening. There are usually three alternate reactions upon first listening a song: you love it, you think it’s OK, or you hate. If you hate it, you usually don’t listen to it again. Chances are if you think it’s OK, after listening to it for another 10 times you’ll grow to like it to some degree. I don’t know why this is – perhaps we become more aware and perceptive of what we didn’t notice before. Perhaps our senses become number. Whatever it is, it almost always happens. The opposite happens for a song you absolutely love – sometimes it takes 10, 20, 30 listens, but eventually you’ll ease into a pattern of anticipation. And that is, after all, half of what makes a song beautiful – not the fact that you’re surprised at what happens, anyone can do that, but the fact that you don’t necessarily know the beauty you hear was coming, or know what form it takes. Once you know it’s coming, slowly the impact decreases, slowly but surely.

I’ve listened to Television’s song “Venus” for maybe, I don’t know, probably about 200, 250 times. For probably the last 49 plays before this most recent one (yes, it took that long) I’ve sunk into a pattern of surprisingly little reaction from the song. I still love it, I still find it beautiful, it still astounds me, despite the fact that I know every single guitar pluck by heart. Yet, it doesn’t astound me, doesn’t quite overwhelm me with beautiful sound like it did the first time. Well, the second time would be more accurate. I can actually recall how I discovered Television. It was summer, nearing the end of my freshman year in High School, sweltering of course, and amidst that heat somehow my teacher had enough energy to teach us about Hellenistic Greek art - and Venus De Milo. Somehow I remembered my father saying something way back when about a song about Venus De Milo. I can’t remember how I remembered it, because it must have been a random passing remark from two, three years before that. Yet somehow it stuck with me, and I remembered it that day. I arrived home and downloaded it from iTunes. Then I downloaded another song from the album, probably “See No Evil,” then another, and then finally the entire album a few days later. I listened to “Venus” the first time, and I liked it, perhaps even really liked it, but I hadn’t truly listened to it, I hadn’t truly understood what I was hearing. The second time it clicked. What I was listening to was near impossible to describe in words. It took my breath away. That day I listened to it about 20 times, and amazingly it never wore off. After every listen I would have been surprised my head wasn’t aching with some sort of traumatic bliss. It was that powerful.

And yet, how many listens later, and what’s happened? My ears had been slowly going numb into a pattern of complacency, but with little loss of breath. (Though I must admit, the other songs I hadn’t been wild about on the album – “Prove It,” “Guiding Light” – have slowly opened up my ears to sounds I hadn’t noticed before. “Guiding Light” used to be a fairly straightforward, pleasant ballad-like song, but now I notice its layering, its patterns and progressions and – brace yourselves – even its lyrics, something, despite my literary nature, I tend to place far behind a song’s sound in importance. The same thing for “Prove It.”) But today I listened to it again. Perhaps it was because I was much too tired, perhaps because it smelled like frying onions, perhaps just because I hadn’t listened to it in close to a week, which is an eternity for Marquee Moon. Whatever the reason, it opened up again. Suddenly I understood again why I had loved it so much in the first place. Maybe “understood” is the wrong word - this is not to say I hadn’t loved it all the time, but now I experienced it, felt why I loved it so much. Suddenly that traumatic bliss was back. But it’s probably not here to stay. As Richard Hell – who first began in Television alongside Tom Verlaine - once said, “Love comes in spurts.”

Picture Above: Television's 1977 "Prove It" b/w "Venus" single.

The Saint John Coltrane African Orthodox Church

The complete and utter synthesis of  spiritual connectivity and musicality achieved by John William Coltrane has arguably never been matched by any other composer and musician in the 20th century. One listen to Ascension can tell you that. In fact, Trane's impact was so great that an African Orthodox Church in San Francisco has beatified Coltrane - or rather, Saint Coltrane.

According to Wikipedia (no jokes please), "The African Orthodox Church is a primarily African-American denomination in the Anglican tradition, founded in the United States in 1919. It has approximately 15 parishes and 5,000 members." I'm frankly not too surprised that Coltrane has become such - not a religious figure, but, in a sense, a mythical figure. I'm not commenting on the African Orthodox Church in particular (I'm not implying that "saints" and "mythic" are one and the same), but, as with any great, there's always the potent combination of amazement and nostalgia. That combination makes "legends," but Coltrane in particular has all the right ingredients: A journeyman who gets a break with a star and suddenly takes the scene by storm, changing the face of the music forever, refusing to become still, constantly innovating and discovering, overcoming his personal vices, finding his inner spiritual voice, blah blah blah. It's all true of course, but Coltrane embodies it like no jazzman before him or since.

Oh, and have I mentioned that this performance is possibly the most breathtaking live performance I've ever seen?

Isaac Hayes Live at Wattstax performing "Theme from Shaft" - 1973.

That cat Shaft is a baaad mothe-

Man, that wah-wah is like a percussion instrument. Wattstax isn't talked about a lot these days, which is an incredible shame. It was seen as the "black answer to Woodstock," which is a stupid comparison, of course, at least in terms of its social, political, and even structural aspects - unlike Woodstock, it wasn't held over a weekend in an upstate New York farm, but for one long day - August 20, 1972 - in Los Angeles Memorial Colosseum. It featured all the Stax stars and then some - Isaac Hayes, the Bar-Kays, the Staples Singers, Carla and Rufus Thomas, Albert King, etc.

Meanwhile, the Bar-Kays did their own, equally funky take on Shaft:

Above: Watt's most recognizable landmark, the Watts Towers.

John Cage and Morton Feldman in Conversation, 1967

From archive.org:

This first of a three part conversation between John Cage and Morton Feldman was recorded at WBAI in New York between October 18-25, 1967. The segment begins with Cage and Feldman discussing the various ways people perceive intrusion in their lives. The composers then spend some time on the occupation of the artist as "being deep in thought," and what the goals or purposes of "being deep in thought" might be. A brief analysis of Black Mountain College follows before Cage and Feldman return to the idea of being in thought, and the role of boredom in life. The conversation ends with Cage explaining his hesitation towards taking on students.

Great stuff, one of three recordings, not only two of the greatest minds of the time under one roof, but two of the greatest voices - Cage with his distinctive, high pitched, almost floating voice, and Feldman, with his heavy New York accent that sounds more like the plumber next door than one of the greatest composers of the 20th century.

(Rahsaan) Roland Kirk - The Inflated Tear (1968)

Rahsaan Roland Kirk said: "When I die, I want them to play 'The Black and Crazy Blues'. I want to be cremated, put in a bag of pot, and I want beautiful people to smoke me and hope they get something out of it."

Whatever you say, Rahsaan. This album remains the collector of some of the most beautiful jazz songs ever recorded, and it's definitely one of my favorite jazz albums. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's the most underrated jazz album of all time. Roland Kirk, who later added the name "Rahsaan," was known as a sideshow early on, an "act" rather than a musician: a man who played three strange looking reed instruments simultaneously, hummed into a flute, maybe punctuated  a solo with a whistle more likely to be found at a child's birthday party than Carnegie Hall - and, he was blind. But the idiotic castigating from the critics, targeted at his unorthodox approach, eventually wore off, and soon people discovered he was one of the great innovators and creative geniuses in jazz of his time - and he proved that all without sacrificing his approach. On The Inflated Tear, so named after the condition that caused him to become fully blind (from only partially before) when a nurse overdosed him on eye medication, these are his credits:

Roland Kirk - tenor sax, manzello, stritch, clarinet, flute, whistle, English horn or flexafone

If you're wondering, a manzello and a stritch are two variations on a saxophone, with slightly altered bodies, which create slightly different tones. On his first major album, from back when he was considered practically a sideshow, "Introducing Roland Kirk," his line is similar - tenor sax, manzello, stritch, and whistle.

This, his magnum opus, is almost like a sprawling, yet concentrated jazz history that doesn't begin to approach mere nostalgia - it still remains and sounds fully contemporary. Here's the best way I've found to describe it: It's you dreaming of you having a dream tomorrow about the day before the real dream. Does that make sense? He's looking at the past, but there's a definite purposeful distance from it - he isn't the past, knows he isn't, but nevertheless wants to pay homage to it. He quotes New Orleans-esque funeral marches, early bebop, he even covers Ellington's "Creole Love Calls," and, at times, it seems like he's quoting himself. Picturing "The Black and Crazy Blues," the first track from this album, being played at his funeral doesn't bring up sadness - it's the one that sounds like a funeral march, but it's hardly mournful. It has a kind of remote optimism, or at the very least, a surreal sense of humor - a sense of comfort in sadness.

Sadly, Rahsaan Roland Kirk's death was not accompanied with any of the sense of muted optimism, any sense of comfort in its time and place, that is inferred from "The Black and Crazy Blues" - he died in 1977 of a stroke at age 42.

The Bridge - Sonny Rollins (1962)

I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed at this 1962 album, the first album by Rollins after his voluntary three-year retirement, which is now the stuff of legend - supposedly, he wanted to almost relearn the saxophone and took three years off to do nothing but practice, during which he often played under the Williamsburg Bridge (the Manhattan side, of course). The main problem with this "comeback" album stems from the fact that Sonny is a great saxophonist, but not a great composer and arranger. In fact, I'd say his best work was as a side man, taking his amazing tone and his unmatched sense of subtle impact to songs that didn't sound quite so stifled and emotionless - I realize that sounds a bit harsh, and I hate calling any record emotionless, because obviously its not, but I was not feeling it. His mid 50s work with Monk is a prime example of when he did take his pure playing to a setting that suitably complimented it and showed the fully realized potential of Rollins's playing. On The Bridge, however, I don't feel the setting suitably compliments it.