By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
By Steve Weinstein
By Araceli Cruz
By the middle of the last century, there were three identifiable schools of jazz: traditional, modern, and Duke Ellington. The permutations were countless by Ellington's death in 1974, but he remained sui generis. One widely accepted historical narrative of jazz holds that breakthroughs were made on the fly by a succession of brilliant soloists (beginning with Louis Armstrong) in exchange with fellow improvisers, leaving the task of codificationthe paperwork, as it wereto composers and arrangers. But the greatest jazz composers have been autonomous. Was Monk bebop or did he merely coincide with it, as Ellington did with swing? Was Sun Ra in step with anyone else's avant-garde? The first composer to systematize Ornette Coleman's improvisational gains was Ornette Coleman, and the same could be said of Wayne Shorter. Gil Evanseven early on, when he was mistakenly perceived as an orchestrator for hirecreated a compositional identity by accepting only those assignments in keeping with his own sensibility, culminating in his masterpieces with Miles Davis. And what about Mingus, whose most galvanizing music owed as much to his weltschmerz and hair-trigger temper as it did to Ellington or bebop? Whether or not the rank and file followed, every important jazz composer has been sovereign within his or her own sphereespecially those lucky few able to keep their key personnel intact and close at hand for decades, either by paying them out of songwriter's royalties (like Ellington) or by inducing cultlike adoration (like Ra).
Though some might deem it premature to advance Maria Schneider to the pantheon just yet, at 47 she seems to me to have all the qualifications, right down to a core of steadfast orchestra members: "Those guys play her music like they'd take a bullet for her," another composer remarked enviously following a recent performance. Schneider's new Sky Blue makes it easy to hear why. A Gil Evanslike exercise in keeping a melody steadily advancing over suspended chords, "Rich's Piece" is also a showcase for Rich Perry's yearning and eruptive tenor saxophone. Scott Robinson's lithe clarinet is lead dancer on "Aires de Lando," based on tricky Peruvian rhythmic subdivisions and the piece closest in temper to those on Schneider's last release, 2004's Spanish-guided Concert in the Garden. The cresting melody of "The 'Pretty' Road,"Sky Blue's lyrical opener, is simplicity itselfmaybe a touch too simple as melodies go, in fact, although Ingrid Jensen's darting flugelhorn adds an element of adventure, while Luciana Souza's wordless vocals on the refrain add poignancy and grandeur. (Offhand, no jazz composer has used the human voice so effectively as an orchestral element since Mike Westbrook utilized Norma Winstone on Love Songs, a 1970 album from England that I doubt influenced Schneider, because most American jazz musicians remain blissfully unaware of it.)
Elsewhere, the title track (and closer) is a eulogy heartbreakingly delivered by soprano saxophonist Steve Wilson amid ensemble amens reminiscent of Keith Jarrett, Pat Metheny, and Carla Bley's similar use of emblematic cadences from white Protestant hymns in place of the black spirituals that hard bop taught us to listen for. And though all these pieces qualify as concertos for a favored instrumentalist, even Sky Blue's 22- minute centerpiece, "Cerulean Skies" inspired by Schneider's experiences bird-watching in Central Park, and stirring in its depiction of movement and mass (the best parts are like Copland, but not chamber-of-commerce Copland)awards a privileged moment to tenor saxophonist Donnie McCaslin, the first and most pivotal of three soloists. In this context, his big tone is like an enormous wingspan.
Short of dipping into the royalties from "Sophisticated Ladies" or fostering a belief in their own divinity, orchestra leaders win the loyalty of their players by presenting them with better material than they're likely to come up with on their own, and by spotlighting them in settings richer than any rhythm section could provide. But in Schneider's case, no less than it was in Ellington's or Evans's, I'm guessing part of the appeal is in an approach to orchestration that keeps her players on their toes if there's any straightforward section- writing on Sky Blue, I missed it, and you'd have to send away for the scores to figure out the combination of instruments in some of her voicings. Like Concert in the Garden, this one is available only through the ArtistShare website (so are the scores, but for more than $100 each). Most of the feature stories that greeted the previous CD focused on a new business model that's old news by now, but I suspect this isn't the only reason Sky Blue hasn't generated nearly as much attention. Garden represented a young composer's breakthrough, and its ongoing Spanish dance allusions lent its individual pieces conceptual unity. But Schneider's gifts are well established by now, and the operative metaphor on the more varied Sky Blue is "flight"as much a literary conceit as a musical one, and, paradoxically, harder to put into words than the sensations of dance.
For all of that, Schneider's compositions aren't really impressionistic, or at least not to start. "Each of these pieces began when I cast out a few exploratory tones in search of a meaningful sound," she writes in her liner notes, describing a Nabokovian process of speak, memory. "Given a little gestation time, the seeds of each piece started to pop, revealing something very personal. I found myself on a journey either back in time or deep inside myself, the music expressing even more than I'd consciously felt from the actual experiences." Where she fits in relationship to today's jazz mainstream is a puzzle, because aside from those Spanish rhythms (and those Protestant hymns, if we're talking ECM), she shares little in common with her immediate contemporaries. Where she touches shoulders with the giants, though, is in beckoning us into a private, self-sufficient musical world.
Substantial reputations have been built on less than what Gerald Wilson, a veteran of the swing era and bebop's first wave, has achieved since turning 80 almost a decade ago. In jazz, there is no right way or wrong way: Whereas Schneider eschews section writing, the longtime West Coaster thrives on pitting brass against reeds, and it lends punch to even his sleekest charts on Monterey Moods, his third consecutive album fronting a stellar crew of New Yorkers (the trumpet section alone includes Jon Faddis, Jimmy Owens, and Terrell Stafford). Most of the album is taken up by the seven-part title suite, written in honor of the Monterey Jazz Festival's 50th anniversary. Organized around a three-note phrase (Mon-ter-EY!) that's put through nearly every conceivable tempo and style, from ballad to Latin, this ultimately isn't among Wilson's best recent workwhat at first seems ingenious becomes merely repetitious once you figure out what's going on. But the individual movements are striking when heard one at a time, especially the opening riffer and a flute-y ballad somehow evocative of both '50s West Coast cool and '60s nouvelle vague. Moreover, Wilson has few peers when it comes to providing springboards for his soloists: Top honors here go to the unheralded tenorist Kamasi Washington and flutist Hubert Laws, who's made his compromises over the years but digs into Wilson's music with contagious élan.
Drummer Harris Eisenstadt's The All Seeing Eye + Octets broaches the subject of recomposition, which has lately become a genre into itself. The Original All Seeing Eye, from 1965, might be the least celebrated of Wayne Shorter's Blue Note albums, but it was also his most ambitious gambit as a composer, and the work most in touch with that era's mystically inclined avante-gardehis La Creation du Monde, ending with an ominous acknowledgment to Mephistopheles by flugelhornist Alan Shorter, the saxophonist's more daredevil brother. Eisenstadt reconceives the album's five heads as chamber works: without Shorter and Freddie Hubbard, this reinterpretation lacks the original's soloistic firepower, but makes up for it with dark, bruising interplay between Daniel Rosenboom's trumpet and three low reeds. If the presence of a bassoon inevitably recalls La Sacre du Printemps, the combination of bass clarinet, Chris Dingman's vibes, and Eisenstadt's drums reinforces this music's Blue Note origins, implicitly linking to Eric Dolphy's Out to Lunch. And, in at least one instance, Eisenstadt comes closer to realizing Shorter's intentions than Shorter himself did: Given his proud musicianship, there was no way Shorter could bring himself to depict "Chaos," but Eisenstadt can. The original proceeded from a belief in what is now called "intelligent design," and could itself be taken by a believer as evidence of it. Eisenstadt treats it as an evolutionary work-in-progress, and it says something about his own promise as a composer that the pair of tumbling, three-part octets that complete this CD don't come as a letdown.