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
Though its champions insist the blues will never die, they know better than anyone that its survival rests on semanticsblues festivals nowadays celebrate "roots" music in general, much of it of only passing interest to 1960s purists who went hunting door to door for elderly bluesmen they recognized as a vanishing species. Jazz, too, has been threatened with extinction for quite some time now, though the double whammy usually cited as probable causea diminished audience and a dearth of household namesmight not prove as fatal as the common wisdom that innovation ceased after Coltrane.
True, Coltrane took jazz harmony as far as it could go, and everything since has been a refinement of his methods or a reversion to Charlie Parker's. But that's only if we're talking about improvised solos, which is where we've been taught to listen for breakthroughs. What's been expanding over the last several decades, beginning with the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians' emphasis on collective interplay in Coltrane's wake and continuing with the reemergence of composition as a vital force near the tail end of the loft era, hasn't been the language of improvisation but the context surrounding it. So much so that in the case of eclectics like Uri Caine, Don Byron, and Bill Frisellwho all feel free to incorporate whatever strikes their fancy from the pop and longhair music they listened to between Blue Note LPs while growing up in the '60s and '70sa good way to recognize today's most innovative jazz is hearing complaints that it isn't jazz at all. A common accusation is that renegades like Caine are playing their record collections. If so, at least those collections are larger and more varied than those of tedious contemporaries whose repertoire consists of nothing but worn-out grooves from Kind of Blue and A Love Supreme. In widening the definition of jazz to include all things close enough, they're also keeping it vital by extending its reach.
That said, it isn't easy explaining Uri Caine Plays Mozart to anyone unfamiliar with the pianist's earlier left-handed salutes to Bach, Beethoven, Wagner, Schumann, and Mahler. Imagine a gaggle of freewheeling improvisersincluding a distortion-infatuated guitarist (Nguyên Lê), a trumpeter equally fond of Booker Little and ducks (Ralph Alessi), and a turntablist whose idea of night music is things that go bump (DJ Olive)occasionally letting Caine and violinist Joyce Hammon coax them into a reasonably faithful rendering of a Mozart allegro or andante. But this doesn't fully capture it, because as often as not the Mozart precedes the mayhem, as when a minuet from the Jupitersymphony morphs into a habanera, a blues shuffle, a dirge by bassist Drew Gress, and finally a Liberation Music Orchestra-like march. What's more, even those passages that sound most impromptulike when drummer Jim Black and clarinetist Chris Speed, taking their cue from DJ Olive's sampled calls to Muslim worship, transform a Mozart Turkish rondo into a blue rondo á la turkfurther demonstrate Caine's compositional insight.
A comparison with John Lewis isn't especially helpful, either, because even though Caine uses percussion-led crescendos as frequently and as artfully, his adaptations are nowhere near as straitlaced and starry-eyed as the Modern Jazz Quartet's sometimes were. Like FM DJs used to say when announcing tracks from Kenton Plays Wagnerway back when, Uri Caine Plays Mozart . . . to win.
Mozartwhose early piano concertos were enlargements of other composers' sonatas and really not so different from Caine's strategy of extracting new works from oldbarely holds on to his powdered wig and pantaloons, but escapes with his dignity. For someone like me who's always thought of him as historically central but emotionally lightweight, the surprise is realizing how much I like him anywayand how much stray Mozart I've been hearing in jazz over the years without wondering about the source. Could that twirling line from Sinfonia Concertante in E-Flat Major be the mother of Albert Ayler's anthems as well as Sousa's? Caine's only Mozartsolo feature, an interpretation of the three-part C Major Piano Sonata with the first and third movements separated from the second by ensemble pieces, prompts similar questions about the indirect origins of ragtime and Keith Jarrett's free-form ruminations. Not so much updating Mozart as undating him, Caine is tweaking jazz conventions as well.
Caine's latest side project is Moloch, where he's called upon by John Zorn to interpret 19 short piano pieces that are stylistically all over the map, ranging from weighty exegeses on Stockhausen to light-fingered exercises in a kind of modified boogie-woogie with a discernable Spanish tinge (though given the Hebrew titles, maybe I mean a Sephardic tinge). Always deliberately reminding you of something else, this is Zorn at his most encyclopedic and romantic, a winning display of his range as a composer. But what makes the greatest impact here is Caine's pianism, which is put to a greater test than on his own trio albums, where his eclecticism sometimes works against him by shrouding him in his numerous influences, beginning with McCoy Tyner and Herbie Hancock. I don't pretend to know how much improvisation there is on Moloch, though I'm guessing very little. It hardly matters in the end, because the record's rhythmic momentum alone lands it within the general vicinity of jazz. Along with large-scale projects like Mozart, Caine's finest showing as a soloist so far points to a major talent deserving acceptance on his own terms.
Listening to jazz albums these days can be like surfing the Web, what with all the links to external styles. On Bennie Wallace's live Disorder at the Border, the links to jazz tradition are internal. Wallace's honoree is Coleman Hawkins, whose 1939 recording of "Body and Soul" epitomizes jazz's own classical period. A jukebox hit with a suave tenor saxophonist pouring his heart into a pretty song, it was also an early example of a great improviser abstracting a familiar melody into a harmonic palimpsesta signpost to bebop. Wisely choosing not to compete with Hawkins at his own game, Wallace adheres to the original chord changes even during a jabbing cadenzathe modernizing touches are in his leaping intervals, and in arranger Anthony Wilson's dissonant countervoicings.
One reason Hawkins's 2004 centennial passed without many tributes is that he was defined by his swashbuckling arpeggios rather than by a body of compositions. The trick to honoring him is capturing something of his improvisatory thrust, which you'd think might involve orchestrating his most famous solos as backing riffs. I don't hear much of that on Disorder at the Border, though an especially intricate saxophone unison following Terell Stafford's jolting trumpet choruses on "Bean and the Boys" seems a likely exception. Even so, Wilson's arrangements pack their own punch in emphasizing Hawkins's ties to bebop, and Wallace channels the patriarch at will just by slowing his vibrato and dropping into a subtonelike on "La Rosita," where he and trombonist Ray Anderson circle each other as nimbly warily as Hawkins and Ben Webster on their 1957 Verve recording of this woozy 1920s tango.
Hawkins's star in the firmament is secure with or without tributes, but this one is valuable for casting Wallace in a new light. When Wallace broke on the scene in the late '70s, no one in that polarized era knew quite what to make of a saxophonist with one ear in tradition and the other in the vanguard. As a consequence, he was often likened to Archie Shepp, who was then backing away from the avant-garde and playing ballads that emphasized his lineage to past tenor giants. But the notion that Wallace was getting his Hawkins via Shepp seemed dubious even then. Disorder at the Border confirms he was going straight to the source all along.