By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
As somebody who's come to improvised music via alt-rock, I want fresh stuff all the time, so I mostly stuck to Bell Atlantic's artier, louder, and more listening-intensive shows. (But not "out," as Parker insisted at his Little Huey Creative Music Orchestra's Saturday-afternoon roof-raising at the Tonic: "If you love your wife, you don't say 'My wife is out'." Fair enough. Of course, Tonic wasn't part of the BAJF, but that's another story.) And this festival has fabulously catholic booking policies. There was more pop than usual this year, it seemed, but what the gene pool gains from Sonic Youth and the Dirty Three is worth the inclusion of, say, the Toasters.
The BAJF's smaller rooms had some of its more frontier-minded young bands. Over at the Lotus Club, Sideshow's kinetic new-music reinterpretations of Charles Ives songs made 100-year-old compositions into fresh-cut brain-twisters. And a couple of shows in the Knit's downstairs Old Office gave a glimpse of the German new-music scene they're hoping to pump up, or cash in on, with a Berlin branch of the club. The most interesting-sounding scheduled acts from that bunch never turned up, but Shank's PiL-ish electric bass and trombone-through-effects built up a woozy throb that made the best use of new technology I saw at the festival.
The New Thing's old wave ripped it up, too. Pharoah Sanders was a marvel, shaking his bells through extended jams with a two-percussionist quartet (including a bass player who kept busting out into song) and occasionally standing up for crinkle-cut sax blurts plus a bit of croaky but inspired call-and-response singing with the audience. And the week's nicest surprise was Equal Interest, uniting violinist Leroy Jenkins and wind-instrument switch-hitter Joseph Jarman, both AACM veterans, with much younger pianist Myra Melford for a series of ravishing notated pieces that started with solemn tone rows and opened up for elegant, speckly rapid-fire solos. Even when she was karate-chopping the black keys or pulling at a harmonium's bellows, the drones at the core of Melford's playing refracted the older men's fluttering improvisations like the surface of a still pond.
With all these exotic neighbors, John Zorn's Masada came much closer than usual to passing for a straight-up jazz quartet Tuesday night. Masada essentially treat their venue as a rotating fifth member, and it took a while for the Angel Orensanz Foundation's echo-heavy converted church to establish rapport with them. So the group's affectionate flexibility carried the show, drummer Joey Baron swung firmly but politely, and they stuck to the looser, mellower end of their book until Zorn poured an alto bloodbath over the end of the late set.
The next night, a quartet with Dave Lombardo (ex of Slayer), Fred Frith, and Bill Laswell (who should really lose that beret) brought out Zorn's worst tendencies formless shrieking endlessly testing audience endurance though all the Xtreme Noiz Dudes wearing Mr. Bungle T-shirts ate it up. Frith spent most of the set being drowned out; Thursday night, though, he pulled off a magnificent, playful improvised duet with Joey Baron at Angel Orensanz. A virtuoso of tone, Frith constructs extended arguments from the guitar's less-used bits tuning pegs, unamplified strings, paintbrushes (well, his gear includes them). Sometimes you know it's a guitar; sometimes it's a set of versatile electric pickups with some wood attached. He led, Baron followed (visibly itching to go bang but keeping it down), and they got a standing ovation.
On the Is This What They Call Jazz Over There? front, Osaka's bizarro Boredoms bummed out a big crowd of devotees. Their new lineup relies on duration and repetition, a blast on record. But in the boomy South Street Seaport Atrium, with three drummers prolonging climaxes for 10 or 15 minutes straight, it was numbing. French prog-rock heroes Magma, on the other hand, had the clock on their team at their first NYC appearance in 25 years or so. I spent half an hour (meaning the first two-thirds of the first song) snickering at their excesses (extended tweedly solos, a row of vocalists harmonizing in the language that drummer Christian Vander invented, Vander's geekgasm faces) before I noticed my middle and ring fingers curling into the international "this rocks" sign.