Ghost voices

So. What can I say. He came, saw, and delivered. And, one has to add, he looks really good. That was the first thing I thought, what a beautiful man.

It’s become sort of a critical trope to stress that the old firebrand these days also plays surprisingly tender passages. (Which is not really surprising if you’ve heard Schwarzwaldfahrt from 1977 with Han Bennink. Hey, I think it’s out again, you absolutely need to buy that one, and then something by Last Exit, let’s say the eponymous debut. Where was I?) I’m not sure if I would put it thus, I’d say the Chicago Tentet does the Pixies-loud-quiet-loud thing. They begin with a fanfare to the warriors that leaves one with ears burning, then move into a slow trombone choir before stuff explodes again. They make an unholy din, it’s beautiful.

Brötzmann is very strong. Gustaffson is a great team player. It’s interesting, he has a reputation for testosterone-filled playing, but he cries like shot deer. Solely as if to vent, while Brötzmann’s skronk always is musical. McPhee plays beautifully. I wouldn’t need any solo space for Bishop or Vandermark, the latter honking like a texas tenor with a stammer, but he gets standing ovations for that. Suddenly a nicely pastiche Arabian Nights setpiece with Brötzmann on clarinet. Before the thing explodes again.

What’s so beautiful about these totally wild collective improvisations is that you start hearing stuff that maybe is not there. It becomes more than just skronk, there appear ghost harmonies and ghost voices. Deeply satisfying.

It’s kind of amazing that this music nowadays is plain good fun. “Rock ‘n’ Roll,” somebody in the audience cried out.

The pic is of Brötz practising poses for a Blue Note cover.