Posts tagged ‘bernard herrmann’

February 25, 2013

The Runners-Up: Isaac Hayes

The Runners-Up is a monthly column, wherein we will analyze an album that isn’t the consensus first choice or most canonical title by a given artist, but is one worthy of more attention than it’s received to date. The album we’ll look at this month is…

Isaac Hayes

Truck Turner (Stax)

by Nate Patrin

truckturnerlp

Here’s a question I used to ask myself every so often: what’s Isaac Hayes‘ third-best album? Even before I started digging into the man’s back catalogue—from 1967′s lounge-jazz jam session debut Presenting Isaac Hayes to the mixed-bag post-Stax disco stuff—the top two slots seemed easy enough to figure out. There was Hot Buttered Soul, the 1969 solo sophomore release on which the songwriter reinvented himself as a reinterpreter of the contemporary American pop songbook through a filter of orchestral psychedelic soul. And then there’s Shaft, the soundtrack that made him the Henry Mancini of blaxploitation and revealed his flair for scene-setting and motif-driven eclecticism. But after doing some digging through his peak early-mid ’70s catalogue several years back, through To Be Continued and Black Moses and Live at the Sahara Tahoe, hearing Hayes’ soundtrack to Truck Turner finally led me to discover what his third-best record was.

By which I mean the Shaft soundtrack. I’m going to lay it on the line here and declare Truck Turner to be Hayes’ second-best album, even if no single track on it is any real competition for “Theme from Shaft” when it comes to defining (almost) everything that made Hayes great in less than five minutes. What Truck Turner does have going for it, though, is the fact that it’s a double LP’s worth of compositions that show off every musical trick and innovation at Hayes’ disposal right before his artistic peak was behind him. You want a ramped-up title theme that says as much about a single man’s badassery in as little time as possible, preferably with the assistance of a chorus of women shouting the dude’s name? You got it. Want some deep-cut slow jam love songs with his voice drizzled over it like some kind of narcotic syrup? There’s plenty of those. Want enough sample fodder to choke an MPC? Get yourself a copy.

While Hayes’ versatility shines through in all his best albums, there’s something about the selections on Truck Turner that seem to push things a bit further—maybe because it’s not just another Isaac Hayes soundtrack, but the Isaac Hayes soundtrack to an Isaac Hayes movie. As a film, Truck Turner is wildly, knowingly ridiculous: its cast includes Nichelle Nichols (best known as Lt. Uhura from Star Trek) in her only blaxploitation role as a foul-mouthed madam with half of the movie’s best lines, Yaphet Kotto as a far superior bad-guy heavy than his cornball “Mr. Big” role in Live and Let Die, and Hayes as the titular bounty hunter with a klepto shoplifter ladyfriend and a shirt that smells like cat piss. With that kind of mise-en-scene to work with, Hayes went all out and put together seventeen tracks’ worth of material that lent every last ounce of his artistic weight to a movie that, frankly, isn’t especially deserving.

The vocal cuts range from solid enough to fantastic—the latter category belonging primarily to the title theme, which is like “Theme from Shaft” on uppers, all rubber-kneed rhythm and sucker-punch horns. Meanwhile, “You’re in My Arms Again,” “A House Full of Girls,” and “Give it to Me” are Hayes in seductive, sensitive loverman mode, and if you ignore the goofy circumstances of Hayes writing themes for his own love scenes—in other words, scoring himself scoring—they’re every bit as smooth as his best circa-’70 ballads. But most of the record is taken up by instrumentals, and the majority of those lean towards a mixture of fuzzed-out raw funk and airy soul jazz that embodies Hayes’ street-level sophistication. A few cuts—“Driving in the Sun,” “Now We’re One,” “House of Beauty”—emphasize a noticeable jazz influence that add some unpredictable spark and intricate musicianship to what could’ve otherwise been unremarkable downtempo background cues. Others, like “Blue’s Crib,” “Dorinda’s Party,” and the breakbeat favorite “Breakthrough,” lean heavily on fuzzed-out funk and soul that seem tailor-made to soundtrack parties long after the film left theaters.

And two tracks in particular stand out as classics in their own right. “Pursuit of the Pimpmobile” is the longest cut on the album at just over nine minutes, and while its car-chase origins fit the film well, it doubles as a monster of a proto-disco jam, working its way up from a sneaky hi-hat curb-crawl to a frenzied, tense conga-driven groove. On the other side of the LP—and the other side of the spectrum—is another extended workout, “The Insurance Company,” the theme for a trio of assassins sent to terrorize Truck Turner. That song’s an oozing, skulking, suspenseful trudge that rides off flanged piano stabs and reverbed plastic-bottle rattles, then erupts into a horn-driven, icy-fingered slab of psych-soul that sounds like Bernard Herrmann workshopping with the J.B.’s. If there’s anything Hayes did in his musical career that’s more diabolically chilling, I haven’t heard it yet.

Unfortunately, neither the movie nor the album were blockbuster hits—at least not on the level of Shaft. As celluloid immortilization goes, Hayes probably won more admirers as the Duke in Escape from New York or (god help us) Chef on South Park. And this soundtrack is only commercially available as a two-fer that lumps it in with the music from Tough Guys—itself a fine record and the first soundtrack Hayes released in ’74, but not nearly as expansively ambitious as its followup. Hayes wouldn’t record anything else this front-to-back great for the rest of his career, and for the rest of the ’70s it usually took him three or four LPs to even bring up as many ideas as this one soundtrack does in its 72 minutes. But it’s not necessary to think of Truck Turner as the last great album from Isaac Hayes‘ prime—all you need to do is hear it as a good personification of what his prime actually meant.

“Pursuit of the Pimpmobile”:

July 2, 2012

The Unit: Cecil Taylor In 1978

by Phil Freeman

[This essay appears in the latest issue of Burning Ambulance, available physically and digitally from Lulu.com and for Kindle from Amazon.com.]

In the 1960s, pianist Cecil Taylor formed and recorded a variety of groups—trios, quartets and expanded ensembles were heard on albums like Nefertiti, The Beautiful One Has Come, Unit Structures, Conquistador! and Student Studies, as well as the early sessions for the Candid label later released as The World of Cecil Taylor, Air, Jumpin’ Punkins, New York City R&B and Cell Walk for Celeste. The blare of horns against the thunder of his piano and various rhythm sections’ lurching, sprinting attempts to keep up was wildly exciting. But in the decade that followed, Taylor seemed less interested in organizing bands than in hitting as hard and at as great a length as possible. The early 1970s found him recording and performing solo much more often than as the leader of a group—Indent, Solo, Silent Tongues and Air Above Mountains (all among his greatest works) are all unaccompanied piano performances, while Akisakila, Spring of Two Blue J’s, and Dark to Themselves each feature bands of varying size (a trio, a quartet and a quintet, respectively). These groups were undoubtedly assembled with care and rigorously rehearsed prior to the gigs documented on the albums, but it seems clear Taylor wasn’t interested in leading an ensemble at that time.

In 1978, though, he not only formed a band, he took it into the recording studio (something he hadn’t done since Conquistador!, a dozen years earlier) and on a European tour. The Cecil Taylor Unit of spring and summer 1978 is not only one of the pianist’s most vital ensembles, it’s also unique in its instrumentation, and its development of a collective identity makes it a rarity among his groups. The four releases by this sextet—its self-titled debut; 3 Phasis; and the live albums Live in the Black Forest and One Too Many Salty Swift and Not Goodbye—are among my favorite Cecil Taylor albums, and the subject of this essay.

The group consisted of Taylor; alto saxophonist Jimmy Lyons, his creative foil from 1962 to his death in 1986; trumpeter Raphé Malik; violinist Ramsey Ameen; bassist Sirone; and drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson. Malik, originally from Massachusetts, had played with Frank Wright and the Art Ensemble of Chicago in Paris in the late 1960s, during the great free jazz migration from the US to France that gave the BYG label the majority of its catalog. He met Taylor in the early 1970s, and first appeared on 1976’s Dark to Themselves, alongside Lyons, tenor saxophonist David S. Ware and drummer Marc Edwards. Sirone, born Norris Jones, was from Atlanta, and arrived in New York just in time for the first flowering of the free jazz scene; he recorded with many major players within that milieu, including Albert Ayler, Pharoah Sanders and Marion Brown, for sessions on ESP-Disk and Impulse!, and was one of the three co-founders, along with Leroy Jenkins and Jerome Cooper, of the violin-bass-drums trio the Revolutionary Ensemble. Jackson, a transplanted Texan, was another highly regarded player on the New York out-jazz scene; prior to joining Taylor’s group, he had backed Albert Ayler and been the original drummer for Ornette Coleman’s Prime Time—he can be heard on Dancing in Your Head and Body Meta. Ramsey Ameen is the odd man out in the band. He made his recorded debut with the group’s April 1978 studio sessions, which yielded both the self-titled album and 3 Phasis, and seems to have retired from music sometime in the 1980s. And yet his contributions to this group are crucial, serving as a bridge between avant-garde jazz and 20th Century chamber music. Indeed, if you choose to view bridging that distance as the ultimate purpose and greatest success of this band, as I do, then Ameen is the indispensable man, the one without whom the whole project would collapse.

April 11, 2011

Darius Jones/Matthew Shipp

Cosmic Lieder (AUM Fidelity)

by R. Emmet Sweeney

Buy it from Amazon

Pianist Matthew Shipp (who was profiled in the very first issue of Burning Ambulance) turned 50 years old at the end of 2010, and 2011 finds him simultaneously looking toward the past and future. Earlier this year, he released Art of the Improviser, while this week his duo with Darius Jones (profiled in the second issue of Burning Ambulance), Cosmic Lieder, hits stores.

The former is a summation of his work in solo and trio formats. Split into two discs, it revisits earlier compositions and applies his fractured melodic sensibility to standards including “Fly Me to the Moon.” Released on Thirsty Ear, the label that’s been his home base since 1999, it was a victory lap of sorts, celebrating his indomitable independence over the last five decades.

Cosmic Lieder finds him looking ahead with the help of protean alto saxophonist Jones. Since his move from Virginia to NYC in 2005, Jones has placed his raw tone in the service of a dizzying array of projects, from his bluesy debut as a leader, Man’ish Boy, to the raucous noise outfit Little Women. His album with Shipp is an invigorating conversation between two deeply idiosyncratic musical minds.

The album title gives a clue as to their goals in this compelling song cycle. “Lieder” is simply the German word for songs, although for English speakers it has tended to indicate European romantic tunes, often composed to accompany poems, like Franz Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden.” Cosmic Lieder begins with airy and plaintive constructions, mood pieces that spin out glancing harmonies that never cohere into melodies. In “Bleed,” the piano and saxophone dance around each other in a never-consummated romance.

It is in the fourth track, “Multiverse,” that things start getting cosmic, reaching out instead of exploring within. It begins with Jones laying out a tightly packed figure sliding up and down the scale, with Shipp offering rumbling bass accompaniment. They then stagger back and forth until Jones begins more throaty exhortations, which coalesce into an abrasively overpowering squawking air-horn attack. Shipp pounds out chords in an escalating frenzy until both have made the interplanetary contact their song title implies.

The sci-fi vibe continues with “Mandrakk,” which could be the name of a particularly vicious Godzilla foe (I’m seeing a giant komodo dragon). The music could be the monster’s love theme. It kicks off with some plucked piano strings and a low roar from Jones. Shipp muffles the strings while hitting the hammer, getting a harpsichord-like sound as Jones works up into the upper register, a lonely cry for our otherworldly beast. These are uncanny sounds that Bernard Herrmann, in an adventurous mood, could have co-opted for his theremin-soaked score for The Day the Earth Stood Still. It ends with a fluttering saxophone figure and a blunt exclamation from Shipp, closing another of these bewitching miniatures (none of the 13 tracks run far over 3 minutes).

Cosmic Lieder is an evocative but teasing album, churning up musical ideas and exploding them within a few phrases. Filled with the uncertainties of a first encounter, each tune is a provocative exploration that tests each musician’s boundaries. An exemplary minor work that eschews major thematic statements, it finds movement and harmony in the shadowy cul-de-sacs of their restive imaginations.

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