#thelonious monk & his all star
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All Star Jazz Concert, (handbill), Regiment Armory, New York, NY, 1960 [Recordmecca]
Feat.: Thelonious Monk & His All Stars, the Horace Silver Quintet, Cannonball Adderley Quintet, Art Blakey & His Jazz Messengers featuring Lee Morgan, JJ Johnson's Modern Jazz Group, Illinois Jacquet, Chris Connors, Al Hibbler, Carmen McRae and more
#graphic design#typography#music#poster#flyer#thelonious monk#art blakey#thelonious monk & his all star#horace silver quintet#cannonball adderley quintet#lee morgan#jj johnson's modern jazz group#illinois jacquet#chris connors#al hibbler#carmen mcrae#regiment armory#1960s
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American Fiction
Director Cord Jefferson Stars Jeffrey Wright, Sterling K Brown, Leslie Uggams, Tracee Ellis Ross USA 2023 Language English 1hr 57mins Colour
Affectionate portrait of a bourgeois family? Gleeful satire of people desperate to endorse diversity? How about both at once, successfully?
There’s a mixed blessing for the smart film with an attention-grabbing pitch. It simplifies selling the movie, both to distributors and the audience: ‘It’s the one in which…’ ‘Oh, yeah, I’ve heard about that one…’ But it can reduce the movie to something it isn’t really – in this case, you might be surprised to find that American Fiction spends more time on two brothers and a sister dealing with an aged parent than satirising white people’s stupid ideas of what authentic black stories are. I’d say that this movie is closer to The Savages, an excellent but under-seen film with Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney as middle-aged siblings trying to cope with their difficult father than, say, Spike Lee’s raging satire Bamboozled.
Yet the catchy ‘about’ sticks, and I’m not in a position to criticise that. Watching the film, I was wondering if the family stuff had been added by writer-director Cord Jefferson because I didn’t remember it from Percival Everett’s novel Erasure, from which American Fiction is adapted. But no, the blurb on the back of the book describes it ‘as a profoundly moving story of family turmoil’ – so it’s clearly there, but my mind had only held on to pointedly satirical part of the plot.
Thelonious ‘Monk’ Ellison (played in the movie by Jeffrey Wright) is a curmudgeonly academic and writer whose attitude towards his students is becoming unacceptable to the university in California where he works (for those who like to check on fiction’s relationship to life, Everett teaches at USC.) Meanwhile, his agent (John Ortiz) is struggling to find a publisher for Monk’s latest highbrow novel. And over in Boston, his widowed mother (Leslie Uggams) is acting erratically, and his sister and brother are both feeling the financial and other impacts of divorce.
American Fiction is, then, effectively two films in one – a comedy-drama about a troubled (but not unloving) upper-middle-class family and a satire about a snobbish novelist who writes a spoof tale from the hood that (of course) is taken for the real thing. That’s an incredibly tricky mix to get right and at least a few people have been wrong-footed by the movie – ‘what’s all this family-reckoning-with-trauma stuff? Where’s the skewering of the white literary scene I was promised?’
I mean, that’s certainly there, it’s just sharing story space with eg, a tour of a care home the mother might move to. But that’s not just OK, it’s a positive, because the family stuff is great, particularly Sterling K Brown as Monk’s brother Clifford, voraciously making up for lost time after coming out in his forties.
Which is to say, the family scenes are not just ‘funny too’, the biggest laughs we had watching the film came from the interaction between the Clifford and Monk and Monk and Lisa (Tracee Ellis Ross). The writing here is so sharp, so precise, so spot-on. Yes, there are also a few moments of emotional realisation, but as with The Holdovers, I’m working on being less prickly about this kind of stuff – it’s good to feel, too.
This is Cord Jefferson’s debut as a director, but it doesn’t feel like a first film at all. It’s very assured, walks that tonal tightrope perfectly, marshals the cast well. Maybe that Jefferson doesn’t feel like a first-timer is not surprising seeing as he’s not young (he’s 42) and has a ton of experience writing for TV. But he’s not even got any screenplay credits for a movie. So this is extremely impressive.
Along with Wright, Brown and Ross, there’s good work from Erika Alexander* as the Ellisons’ attractive neighbour plus Adam Brody as a slimy movie director – with this and Fleishman Is In Trouble, he’s finding a groove as a glib sleazeball.
I was expecting to quite like American Fiction – as it turned out, I loved it. *I spent too much time watching the movie trying to figure out what I recognised her from – which was playing Rza's mom in Wu-Tang: An American Saga.
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Few songwriters have been able to enjoy hits across six decades, as well as the bonus of a dramatic revival of interest in their work during the later years of their careers. Burt Bacharach, who has died aged 94, could claim both.
With his writing partner Hal David, Bacharach launched himself into the front rank of pop songwriters with a brilliant streak of hits for Dionne Warwick during the 1960s, beginning in 1962 with Don’t Make Me Over and proceeding through (among others) Walk on By, Anyone Who Had a Heart, I Say a Little Prayer, Trains and Boats and Planes, and Do You Know the Way to San Jose. All became standards in Bacharach’s chosen pop-easy-listening genre, and meanwhile he was turning out equally durable classics for a string of different artists. Tom Jones never particularly liked What’s New, Pussycat?, the Oscar-nominated theme from the 1965 film of the same name, but acknowledged its enduring popularity.
Herb Alpert topped the US chart with the winsome ballad This Guy’s in Love With You, Jackie DeShannon did likewise with What the World Needs Now Is Love, and BJ Thomas was the lucky recipient of Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head, from the film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (which brought Bacharach and David Oscars for best theme song and best original score). Bacharach was an Oscar-winner for a third time in 1982, with Arthur’s Theme from the film Arthur.
The son of Bert Bacharach, a sports star turned nationally syndicated newspaper columnist, and Irma Freeman, an artist and songwriter, Burt was born in Kansas City, Missouri. The family moved to Kew Gardens in Queens, New York, when he was a child. At the insistence of his mother, Burt studied the cello, drums and piano. His ears were opened by the innovative harmonies and melodies of jazz musicians of the day such as Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker, and he played with several jazz combos before enrolling in music courses at the Mannes School of Music, New York, and at McGill University in Montreal.
He served in the US army (1950-52), and while acting as a dance band arranger in Germany he met the singer Vic Damone. Back in the US after his discharge, Bacharach worked as piano accompanist to Damone and to numerous other artists on the club circuit. One of them was the actor and singer Paula Stewart, whom he married in 1953.
He was fortunate to fall into one of the all-time great songwriting partnerships with David, whom he first met at the New York songwriting beehive, the Brill Building (also to be the home of other renowned songwriting duos including Leiber & Stoller, Goffin & King and Pomus & Shuman). David had been writing hits for such luminaries as Sarah Vaughan and Frank Sinatra since the late 40s. Bacharach and David scored their first big commercial coup when the country singer Marty Robbins took their song The Story of My Life into the US Top 20 in 1957. A cover version by Michael Holliday reached No 1 in the UK the following year, and Perry Como brought them another smash with his recording of Magic Moments, which spent eight weeks at No 1 in Britain.
After the breakdown of his marriage (he and Stewart divorced in 1958), Bacharach travelled to Europe to become pianist and bandleader for Marlene Dietrich, a role he would sustain until 1964. By 1961 he was back in New York, and wrote some material for the Drifters, as well as the Chuck Jackson hit Any Day Now before resuming his partnership with David. Their song (The Man Who Shot) Liberty Valance, inspired by the John Wayne/James Stewart western, became a US No 4 hit for Gene Pitney in 1962. Pitney did better still with the duo’s composition Only Love Can Break a Heart, which reached No 2 later that year.
Then came Bacharach and David’s historic hook-up with Warwick. She was a member of the Drifters’ backing group, the Gospelaires, and the songwriters invited her to make some demo recordings at their office at the publishers Famous Music, in the Brill Building. One of them was for Make It Easy on Yourself, which became a big hit for Jerry Butler. David recalled: “She said, ‘I thought that was my song!’ We said, ‘No, you just made a demo’. She was really very hurt and angry. Then we realised here’s this wonderful singer and we’re using her to make demos – she could be a star!”
So it proved, and the hits with Warwick became their calling card. They wrote and produced 20 American Top 40 hits for her over the ensuing decade, including seven that reached the Top 10. One of these songs, I Say a Little Prayer, also gave Aretha Franklin a US Top 10 hit and her biggest solo hit in Britain, where it reached No 4. Throughout the 60s anything Bacharach and David touched became commercial gold dust. They wrote film scores for What’s New, Pussycat?, Alfie and Casino Royale, and scored the successful Broadway musical Promises, Promises, whose title song provided another hit for Warwick and spun off a chartbuster for Bacharach himself with I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.
The writers always had a soft spot for the UK, probably because so many British-based artists had No 1 hits with their material, including Cilla Black – whose version of Anyone Who Had a Heart was her breakthrough hit – Sandie Shaw, the Walker Brothers and Frankie Vaughan.
The Carpenters ushered in the 70s with (They Long to Be) Close to You, a US No 1 which also reached No 6 in the UK, but although Bacharach’s 1971 album (called just Burt Bacharach) became a sought-after collector’s item, the decade would prove disappointing. In 1973 Bacharach and David collaborated on a new musical version of the 1937 film Lost Horizon, but it was a commercial disaster that prompted angry splits between Bacharach, David and Warwick, and involved them in a spate of lawsuits. The writers parted company after a disagreement over royalties. Bacharach’s second marriage, to the actor Angie Dickinson, whom he had married in 1965, began to come apart, although they did not divorce until 1980.
It was not until the early 80s that Bacharach’s magic touch returned, when he won the Oscar for best original song for the chart-topping theme from the film Arthur, which he had also scored. One of its co-writers was the lyricist Carole Bayer Sager, whom Bacharach married the following year. The couple went on to write Making Love for Roberta Flack and Heartlight for Neil Diamond. In 1986, Bacharach enjoyed one of his best ever years, achieving two US No 1s with That’s What Friends Are for, recorded by Warwick with Elton John, Gladys Knight and Stevie Wonder as a charitable fundraiser for Aids, and the Patti LaBelle/Michael McDonald recording of the lachrymose On My Own.
In 1991 his marriage to Bayer Sager ended, and two years later he married Jane Hansen. In a 2015 interview, Bacharach – who was nicknamed “the playboy of the western world” during the 60s – admitted: “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody, but when you wind up being married four times, there are a lot of bodies strewn in your wake.”
During the 90s, Bacharach and David reunited with Warwick for Sunny Weather Lover, from her album Friends Can Be Lovers, and Bacharach wrote songs for James Ingram and Earth, Wind & Fire. In 1995 he co-wrote God Give Me Strength with Elvis Costello for Allison Anders’ film about the Brill Building era, Grace of My Heart, and this resulted in the Costello-Bacharach album Painted from Memory (1998).
Bacharach’s contribution to pop history was acknowledged in a 1996 BBC documentary, Burt Bacharach – This Is Now, and he would find himself being hailed as an icon of cool by bands as varied as Oasis, REM, Massive Attack and the White Stripes. In 1997, an all-star cast including Costello, Warwick, Chrissie Hynde, Sheryl Crow and Luther Vandross banded together at the Hammerstein Ballroom, New York, for a serenade of Bacharach’s songs called One Amazing Night, and the Rhino label issued The Look of Love, a three-disc compilation of his music.
Bacharach’s profile received a huge boost from his appearances in all three of Mike Myers’s 60s-spoofing Austin Powers films. He earned an Oscar nomination for the song Walking Tall, his first collaboration with the lyricist Tim Rice, which was performed by Lyle Lovett on the soundtrack of Stuart Little (1999).
His 2005 album At This Time unusually found Bacharach writing lyrics as well as music and even provoking some controversy by touching on political themes. “All my life I’ve written love songs, and I’ve been non-political,” he said. “So it must be pretty significant that I suddenly have strong feelings of discomfort with the state of the world, and what our [US] administration is doing.” This did not prevent the album from winning the 2006 Grammy award for best pop instrumental album.
In 2008 he opened the BBC Electric Proms at the Roundhouse, in London, with Adele and Jamie Cullum among his supporting musicians. His autobiography, Anyone Who Had a Heart: My Life and Music, was published in 2013, and in 2015 he performed at the Glastonbury festival. He continued to tour past his 90th birthday, with concerts in the UK, US and Europe in 2018 and 2019.
In addition to his Oscars and six Grammy awards (plus a lifetime achievement award in 2008), he was awarded the Polar music prize in Stockholm in 2001. In 2011, the Library of Congress awarded Bacharach and David the Gershwin prize for popular song.
A daughter, Nikki, from his second marriage, died in 2007. He is survived by Jane, their son, Oliver, and daughter, Raleigh, and another son, Cristopher, from his third marriage.
🔔 Burt Freeman Bacharach, songwriter, singer and musician, born 12 May 1928; died 8 February 2023
Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com
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SOLITI 2023: THE END OF YEAR LISTS
Triani from Soliti
The Good Times Lovely Soliti releases from Ghosts on TV, Juppe, Stinako and Knife Girl.
Old Music Ennio Morricone – Quando l’amore e Sensualita Beach Boys – Friends George Michael – Older Felt discography The Songs of Bacharach and Costello was on constant rotation (my fave reissue of the year.) Teardrop Explodes – Culture Bunker box set Lana Del Ray – Norman Fucking Rockwell Rip Rig & Panic – I Am Cold Plush – More You Becomes You Neil Young – Chrome Dreams Stevie Wonder – Fulfilling His First Finale Joan Baez – Blessed Are Paul Weller – 22 dreams Sault discography Velvet Underground – Loaded Thelonious Monk – Straight, No Chaser Arthur Russell – Picture of Bunny Rabbit David Sylvian discography
New Music I didn’t think this year offered much until I put this list together. It’s been quietly fabulous.
Lana Del Ray – Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd Kara Jackson – Why Does The Earth Give Us People To Love? Robert Forster – The Candle And The Flame SAZ – SOS Feist – Multitudes King Krule – Space Heavy Christine and the Queens – PARANOÏA, ANGELS, TRUE LOVE Overmono – Good Lies Ryuichi Sakamoto – 12 The Lemon Twigs – Everything Harmony John Cale – Mercy Bar Italia – Tracey Denim Sufjan Steven – Javelin Wilco – Cousin Sparklehorse – Bird Machine Amanda Brown – Eight Guitars Durand Jones – Wait Til I Get Over Lil Yachty – Let’s Start Here. Beach Fossils – Bunny ANHONI – My Back Was a Bridge For You To Cross Lankum – False Lankum Mitski – The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We El Michels Affair & Black Thought – Glorious Game
Best tracks Everything But The Girl – Nothing Left To Lose Dexys – My Submission Lana Del Rey – A&W
Devendra Banhart – Sirens Kara Jackson – no fun/party Knife Girl – Estrogen Felt – Primitive Painters
TV, films books The Bear (TV series) The Last of Us (TV series) Mrs Davis (TV Series) The Last Movie Stars (TV Series) Welcome to Wrexham (TV Series) Dirty Harry movie box set (all five movies) Richard Jewell (Film) Crimes oF The Future (Film) Barbie vs Oppenheimer (loved both of these) The Exorcist (Film) Love to Love You, Donna Summer (documentary) Quentin Tarantino – Cinema Speculation (Book) Dylan Jones – Loaded: The Life (and Afterlife) of the Velvet Underground (Book) Alan Moore/Jacen Burrows – Neonomicon (Book) Collected Judge Dredd (Books) Sight & Sound (magazine) The Guardian (online) The Quietus (online)
This is a good thing My family and home life. It’s still my favourite place to be. Football in all its gross financial injustices, still remains a truly entertaining, all welcoming spectacle – a break from our realities. I spent a lot of my days obsessed with the beautiful game. My own team Tottenham’s reimagining as a team for the neutral under Ange Postecoglou. I’ve had a serious post-covid hangover about going out; crowds and especially going to concerts. But still this year I managed to catch a few shows. John Cale and Knife Girl at the Helsinki Festival was very special. Elvis Costello at Kulttuuritalo was a great way to spend an evening – I didn’t really want it to end (and this was also a rare date with my partner!) Emma Ruth Rundle, Sorry, Jake Xerxes Fussell were good festival experiences. I’m an eternal optimist with dreams that we can all get along, people can be who they wanna be and somehow humanity pulls together to save the planet. My dream state staves off the dark feelings that are increasingly hard to ignore.
This is a low The Israel demolition of Palestine in response to Hamas atrocities is a key world happening which will resonate for decades to come. British Conservatives and all right wing ideologues who – in collusion with the mainstream media – spend most of their time demonising refugees and the trans community. The public discussion around minorities in Finland is base and inhumane. This right-wing Finnish government has been a hard dose of reality that has sprung many of us out of our comfort zones. The casual racism of the Finnish government has normalised terminology that should offend everyone. Disgraceful. The lack of a moral compass or compassion in world politics – who exactly are the good guys? I hope someone could point out who’s looking out for us all nowadays? Elon Musk and the destabilising of Twitter. He just couldn’t leave it alone could he? The unstoppable rise of AI. It’s a slow process (or maybe a fast one) that results in the death of a certain kind of creativity. Hearing that some people in the Music business are using AI to write press releases is a little sad. The Saudi exploitation of football. It doesn’t stop. How long till the whole of football is owned by Saudi Arabia? The Vinyl market becoming an expensive artefact for the wealthy. In typical Music Industry fashion, the vinyl format becomes revitalised only for the music industry to make the price prohibitive for most people. Own goals are rarely clearer.
Future To be a better me.
Happy holidays x
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Rob Mazurek's Exploding Star Orchestra/Small Unit - Spectral Fiction
A frequently astonishing live performance captured last year at the Corbett vs. Dempsey gallery in Chicago. Over the course of two long, exploratory tracks, Rob Mazurek guides his Exploding Star Orchestra through some beyond-category zones. You could slot this next to something like Art Ensemble of Chicago's Nice Guys, but it exists on its own plane, following an inner logic and purpose. The "Small Unit" here is full of all stars — drummer Chad Taylor, Angelica Sanchez on the electric Wurlitzer, Damon Locks adding fragments of poetry and abstract electronics. Everyone gets a chance to shine, but it might be Tomeka Reid who lingers longest; during her knotty, gnarly solo spotlights, she suggests an alternate world where Thelonious Monk played cello instead of piano.
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American Fiction
In "American Fiction," Cord Jefferson's directorial debut is a clever meta-commentary. The film, starring Jeffrey Wright in a role that feels tailor-made for his subtle brilliance, that often breaks the fourth wall.
Wright plays Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, a frustrated academic and novelist who's sick of being told his work isn't "Black enough" for the market. When he sarcastically writes a stereotypical "urban" novel under a pseudonym, the manuscript becomes an overnight sensation, forcing him to confront the absurd expectations placed on Black creators in America. The irony is delicious: Monk's protest against stereotypes becomes the very thing he despises, yet brings him the success he's always wanted.
The film's genius lies in its layered approach to satire. Jefferson adapts Percival Everett's novel "Erasure" with a surgeon's precision, cutting deep into the contemporary discourse around authenticity, representation, and the commodification of Black trauma. It's like watching a chess master play against themselves – every move is calculated, yet the outcome remains unpredictable.
What makes "American Fiction" particularly relevant is its timing. In an era where conversations about diversity and representation in media are at the forefront, the film asks uncomfortable questions: Who gets to tell Black stories? What makes a story "authentically" Black? The answers aren't served on a silver platter – instead, they're buried in the complexity of Monk's character and the increasingly absurd situations he finds himself in.
Jefferson's direction shines in how he balances the film's multiple tones. One moment you're laughing at the ridiculousness of the literary world's racial expectations, the next you're deep in Monk's personal struggles with his family, including a mother battling dementia (played masterfully by Leslie Uggams) and his coming-to-terms with his brother's sexuality. These personal threads aren't just subplot filler – they're integral to understanding Monk's relationship with authenticity and identity.
The technical aspects of the film deserve special mention. The way Jefferson frames Wright in academic settings versus his family moments versus his alter-ego appearances creates subtle visual commentary on code-switching and performance. The score, alternating between classical music and contemporary beats, perfectly underlines the cultural tug-of-war at the film's heart.
Wright's performance is a masterclass in controlled chaos. His Monk is simultaneously over it all and deeply invested, maintaining a facade of academic detachment while internally screaming at the absurdity around him. The supporting cast, including Issa Rae as a successful author of "authentic" Black literature and Sterling K. Brown as Monk's brother, adds layers of complexity to the conversation about Black identity and success.
Where the film truly excels is in its refusal to provide easy answers. It would have been simple to make this a straightforward critique of the publishing industry's racial politics. Instead, it forces us to grapple with our own complicity in these systems. Do we, the audience, secretly crave the very stereotypes Monk is fighting against? The film suggests that the truth lies somewhere in the uncomfortable space between authenticity and performance.
If there's any criticism to be made, it might be that the film occasionally gets too caught up in its own cleverness. Some viewers might find the meta aspects a bit heavy-handed. However, this feels less like a flaw and more like a deliberate choice – after all, subtlety isn't always the best tool for dissecting systemic issues.
"American Fiction" is more than just a satire of the publishing industry or a commentary on Black authenticity – it's a mirror reflecting our own expectations and biases back at us. It's the kind of film that starts conversations and arguments, the kind that makes you laugh until you realize what you're laughing at. In an age where discussions about representation often feel like walking through a minefield, Jefferson's film provides a map – not to safety, but to better, more nuanced questions.
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#EdwardAKliszus#KennyBarron#MilesDavis#nycjazz#Openingnight.Reviews#PeterWashingtonbass#SavannahHarrisDrums#savvyknows#SmokeJazzClub#theFrontRowNYC#TheloniousMonk
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Oscar Peterson - The Bach Suite: Allegro (with sheet music)
Oscar Peterson - The Bach Suite: Allegro (with sheet music)Oscar PetersonPlease, subscribe to our Library. Thank you!Best site for Jazz sheet music transcriptions download.Browse in the Library:
Oscar Peterson - The Bach Suite: Allegro (with sheet music)
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Oscar Peterson
Oscar Peterson was one of the greatest piano players of all time. A pianist with phenomenal technique on the level of his idol, Art Tatum, Peterson's speed, dexterity, and ability to swing at any tempo were amazing. Very effective in small groups, jam sessions, and in accompanying singers, O.P. was at his absolute best when performing unaccompanied solos. His original style did not fall into any specific idiom. Like Erroll Garner and George Shearing, Peterson's distinctive playing formed during the mid- to late '40s and fell somewhere between swing and bop. Peterson was criticized through the years because he used so many notes, didn't evolve much since the 1950s, and recorded a remarkable number of albums. Perhaps it is because critics ran out of favorable adjectives to use early in his career; certainly it can be said that Peterson played 100 notes when other pianists might have used ten, but all 100 usually fit, and there is nothing wrong with showing off technique when it serves the music. As with Johnny Hodges and Thelonious Monk, to name two, Peterson spent his career growing within his style rather than making any major changes once his approach was set, certainly an acceptable way to handle one's career. Because he was Norman Granz's favorite pianist (along with Tatum) and the producer tended to record some of his artists excessively, Peterson made an incredible number of albums. Not all are essential, and a few are routine, but the great majority are quite excellent, and there are dozens of classic Standards. Without doubt, Oscar Peterson was one of the giants of jazz piano. His illustrious career spanned almost seven decades, and he played with some of the biggest names in jazz, including Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie and Herbie Hancock. Duke Ellington called him the “Maharajah of the keyboard,” while Count Basie remarked, “Oscar Peterson plays the best ivory box I’ve ever heard.” Born in a poor neighborhood of Montreal, Peterson became a piano virtuoso at an early age, and credits his sister Daisy Sweeney with expanding his musical horizon. Under his sister’s tutelage, Peterson mastered the core classical repertory, including the preludes and fugues by Johann Sebastian Bach. Bach’s continued influence inspired the composition of the Bach Suite, first released on the 1986 album “Oscar Peterson Live!” In 1960, Peterson established the Advanced School of Contemporary Music in Toronto, which lasted for three years. He made his first recorded set of unaccompanied piano solos in 1968 (strange that Granz had not thought of it) during his highly rated series of MPS recordings. With the formation of the Pablo label by Granz in 1972, Peterson was often teamed with guitarist Joe Pass and bassist Niels Pedersen. He appeared on dozens of all-star records, made five duet albums with top trumpeters (Dizzy Gillespie, Roy Eldridge, Harry "Sweets" Edison, Clark Terry, and Jon Faddis), and teamed up with Count Basie on several two-piano dates. An underrated composer, Peterson wrote and recorded the impressive "Canadiana Suite" in 1964 and has occasionally performed originals in the years since. Although always thought of as a masterful acoustic pianist, Peterson has also recorded on electric piano (particularly some of his own works), organ on rare occasions, and even clavichord for an odd duet date with Joe Pass. One of his rare vocal sessions in 1965, With Respect to Nat, reveals that Peterson's singing voice was nearly identical to Nat King Cole's. A two-day reunion with Herb Ellis and Ray Brown in 1990 (which also included Bobby Durham) resulted in four CDs. Peterson was felled by a serious stroke in 1993 that knocked him out of action for two years. He gradually returned to the scene, however, although with a weakened left hand. Even when he wasn't 100 percent, Peterson was a classic improviser, one of the finest musicians that jazz has ever produced. The pianist appeared on an enormous number of records through the years. As a leader, he has recorded for Victor, Granz's Clef and Verve labels (1950-1964), MPS, Mercury, Limelight, Pablo, and Telarc.
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TRIOS BACK TO BACK AT MEZZROW’S, 22 JUNE 2024
BILLY DRUMMOND with Jeb Patton and David Wong, 9 pm set
JEREMY MANASIA with Ugonna Okegwo and Charles Goold, 10:30 pm set
Old reliables all around (but I’ve probably seen Charles Goold less than the other five, a bit younger he can handle the kit in a trio at Mezzrow’s), delivering variations on the solid rooted sets I prefer. BILLY DRUMMOND is probably the most established/highest profile musician among them, but David Wong and Ugonna Okegwo are well respected when leaders go looking for bass players. Jeb Patton and JEREMY MANASIA are “just” veteran craftsmen, not stars but very very good, a reminder that an established New York working jazz musician is at the very top of the game.
By two different approaches, I mean to capture that DRUMMOND called a set of jazz compositions by friends and contemporaries—Tony Williams, Frank Kimbrough, Jimmy Heath, and Thelonious Monk with one unannounced tune, probably not a standard. Conversely JEREMY MANASIA mixed in a Cole Porter tune and Never Let Me Go with an original, a Jobim (a nifty introduction to Goold), and probably The Theme though the distinctive outro was not given the usual flourish. Drummond was typically magical with those little metallic drums called cymbals but, as leader, he pushed up to the self-indulgence line. His comments about his bandmates and heroes like Williams, the Heaths, and Roy Haynes were very long but fascinating. I probably liked Manasia’s fluidity a smidgeon more than Patton’s playing. Similarly, Okegwo was just higher in the mix than Wong, but both made their necessary and often undersung contributions.
They probably all are undersung in that they are practicing this wickedly difficult craft in a bar (the midnight set had more noise than usual for Mezzrow’s strict listening room policy) in front of maybe 60 people. Hence, this small tribute.
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Orion Pictures: The First Modern Mini-Major: Orion & MGM
In August of 2020 MGM decided to relaunch Orion Pictures as a way to serve underrepresented voices within the film industry, sticking to the independent niche that the label used to have in the 1980s. With Alana Mayo stepping in as president of the label. Mayo on the relaunch of Orion, “We are at an exciting and critical tipping point in our industry. For years many filmmakers and creators who have been considered and treated as outsiders have nonetheless persisted in creating visionary films that drew audiences across the globe and defined culture. Many of these films and filmmakers inspired me to pursue storytelling as a career, and to work towards creating a more equitable environment for all creators.” (McNary) One of the most recent developments for Orion Pictures was the acquisition of the directorial debut of Watchmen writer Cord Jefferson, who adapted the novel Erasure by Percival Everett titling the movie as American Fiction and released in 2023. (Galuppo) The film stars Tracee Ellis Ross, Erika Alexander, Leslie Uggams, Sterling K. Brown, Myra Lucretia Taylor, John Ortiz, Issa Rae and Adam Brody. With the plot of the film centered around Thelonious “Monk” Ellison, a writer and English professor whose writing career has stalled because his work isn’t deemed “Black enough.” (Hollywood reporter) The film has a 7.5/10 from IMDb and a 96% on Rotten Tomatoes.
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In the summer of 1967, I was asked to arrange a medley of the great American national songs: 'America the Beautiful', 'The Star-Spangled Banner', 'America (My Country 'Tis of Thee)', 'God Bless America'. I put a lot of time into it: I'd been listening to a lot of Thelonious Monk and Stravinsky, and my arrangement had some of the same kinds of angularity and dissonance. (I was also listening to Cecil Taylor, but at that time I found I wasn't able to do much with Cecil's music in terms of integrating it into an orchestration for a concert band.)
The bandleader was away, so he never heard the music before we performed it. I did the arrangement and a sergeant named Marcato was leading the rehearsals in the absence of the band director. The guys in the band were knocked out. 'Damn, Henry,' they told me, 'this is really sophisticated stuff!'
We went to play the medley in Kansas City. We knew the premiere would be a big ceremonial occasion, but we didn't know who would be there. It turned out to be a gathering of all the big military brass—the generals, the colonels, the majors from all the divisions stationed in the region—as well as political leaders, including the governor and state legislators, the mayor and the city council, and religious dignitaries from the Catholic Church and various Protestant denominations. They were all seated up on a platform in front of a large audience.
The band director showed up just in time for the concert. He hadn't even had a chance to look over the score, much less approve it. The plan was for him to conduct it on the fly and hope for the best. We launched into the arrangement and didn't get more than eight bars into it before the Catholic archbishop stood up and yelled at us: 'Blasphemy!' He was furious. The pristine white and crimson of his chasuble and his ornate pointy miter only made his outburst all the more shocking. 'This is an outrage!' he thundered. 'Pure blasphemy!' The conductor, unsure what to do, signaled to the band to stop.
I was standing in the wings. Once I was promoted to arranger, I didn't even have to play in the band myself anymore. I was just along for the ride. I figured I'd hear my arrangement and then hang out in Kansas City.
The crowd murmured in confusion as the archbishop glared at the governor and the other politicians. Flustered, they turned to the clutch of generals. 'Who's responsible for this travesty?' the politicians demanded. The generals jumped off their feet. They were certainly not going to be called on the carpet over this mess. They looked over to the band director, and he looked at Sergeant Marcato. And Marcato pointed at me and said, 'Threadgill's the one who did it! He wrote the music.'
I peered out from the wings. 'Um, what's the problem?' I asked.
They stopped the entire event right there. As the audience shuffled out, there was a sort of huddle around the archbishop with the band director and the army officers. I didn't know what was going on. Blasphemy? A piece of music? What did that even mean? How could an arrangement be blasphemous?
The band was herded back into the bus to return to Fort Riley. The band director informed me: 'Threadgill, you're back in the band tomorrow. Report for band in the morning.'
'What? Back in uniform?' I was confused. As the arranger, I didn't even need to wear my military dress. I had been dressing in civilian clothes for months.
'Yes,' he answered in a severe tone. 'You're in the second clarinet section, in uniform, tomorrow.'
I tried to engage him in civil conversation. 'What is this about? What's going on?' He refused to discuss it further. I wasn't sure what was up, but I knew I was in trouble. I knew how the chain of command works. These people kick spit on asses. When the archbishop jumped on the generals, they had to find somebody to take the blame.
We got back to the fort in the early evening. I remember that even the sunset looked ominous that day. The next morning, I scrambled to get ready for band rehearsal, trying to get my fatigues on straight, looking for a reed that would work for my clarinet. We started at nine o'clock and rehearsed until noon, when we had a lunch break.
The rehearsal studio was a big, beautiful room, and by midday the sunlight was streaming in through the windows. As we sat back down for the afternoon session, I was thinking that despite the abrupt reversal of fortune, it was actually a pleasure to play in the group again, to rediscover the reflexes of section playing in a large ensemble.
The band director taps on the podium and we sit up attentively as he raises his baton. Just as he is about to give the downbeat, the door opens and there's a messenger in full dress carrying a dispatch bag. 'At ease and attention,' the band director tells us. We place our instruments down to listen to the messenger.
He opens his leather dispatch bag, pulls a number of documents out of an official-looking envelope, and starts reading. There's a laundry list of orders. 'According to so-and-so… The 5th Army such-and-such… In accordance with the…' It went on and on. And then: '… According to the Military Code of Justice, Private Henry Threadgill—'
I look up, surprised to hear my name. 'Who? What did he say?'
'Be quiet and listen,' the band director reprimands me.
'—has been assigned to the 4th Infantry Division in Pleiku.'
'Pleiku?' I sputter.
The director snaps: 'Shut up and listen!'
I have thirty days to get my life together, the order continues, and then I have to report to Oakland, California, on a particular date.
'Wait one second!' I say. 'Listen—' The bandleader tells me again to close my mouth, but I ignore him. '—I play clarinet. This is a high-priority instrument. In a concert band, this is the highest-priority instrument there is. It's like a violin in an orchestra.'
The band director gives me an icy stare. 'We know what you play.'
'What do you mean, I'm being transferred? I applied to be stationed abroad, either in France or in Panama. I was told I couldn't join those bands because there was a shortage of capable clarinet players here. Now you're letting me go?!'
'I've got nothing to do with this,' the band director says.
I'm completely numb. The guys in the band sit there in complete silence, trying not to look at me. I know what I want to say: 'What in the world is going on? My arrangement was just a piece of music! Doesn't anyone have a sense of humor here? You're telling me that you're shipping me off to war because of a piece of music?'
But there's no one to say it to.
And that's it. They order me to get up right there and leave the rehearsal hall, go back and clear out my bunk, turn in my clothes, go to the quartermaster, stop by the finance office, get all my papers. And I'm on my way back to Chicago for thirty days to arrange my affairs before I'm deployed to Vietnam.
~Henry Threadgill & Brent Hayes Edwards [buy]
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Jeffrey Wright was dubbed by another actor for 'Ride With the Devil'
In American Fiction, Jeffrey Wright finally has a leading role worthy of his prodigious talents, but in an interview with EW's Around the Table (above), the actor recounts some of the frustrations he's faced along the way.
Sitting alongside his American Fiction costars Tracee Ellis Ross, Sterling K. Brown, and Erika Alexander, Wright discusses working on the Ang Lee Civil War-era revisionist western Ride With the Devil, based on the novel Woe to Live On by Daniel Woodrell.
Wright says he refused to censor one particular word of dialogue for an airplane version of the movie and was subsequently dubbed by another actor who had no such qualms.
In the 1999 film — featuring, among others, Tobey Maguire, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Mark Ruffalo, Margo Martindale, and, in her cinematic debut, Jewel — Wright portrayed Daniel Holt, a former slave fighting for his freedom on the side of the Confederacy.
"In this scene in which he has this, kind of the apex of his awakening and his need to emancipate himself, he says, 'Being that man's friend was no more than being his n-----. And I will never again be anyone's n-----,'" Wright recalls. "And it's such a self-empowering statement and understanding of the word."
Wright goes on to note that the studio (the movie was co-produced by Universal Studios and Good Machine Productions, and was distributed by USA Films) was conflicted about how to market the movie until they, in his words, decided not to market it at all. But he was ultimately called back in to do the "airplane version of the dialogue" — that is, one without profanity. During the recording session, the Tony- and Emmy-winner was asked to substitute the N-word for something less incendiary.
"I said, 'Nah. That's not happening.' And they found some other actor to come in and do that one word, apparently," Wright tells his costars, shocked by his revelation, "so that the airplane folk would be comfy in the darkness of their own ignorance around the language of race."
In American Fiction, Wright attempts to shed some light on that language, playing Thelonious "Monk" Ellison, an acerbic writer who pens a stereotypical novel as a joke only to have the joke backfire on him in increasingly comedic ways.
American Fiction is playing now in limited release and will expand this month. Check out EW's Around the Table with the cast of the Cord Jefferson film below.
Am I supposed to THANK Hollywood Gay Mafia member, Jeffrey Wright, for fighting for the right to use the N-word? Is that what I just read? And why the fuck am I not surprised that Rude With The Devil co-starred sleazy Mark Ruffalo?
#Jeffrey Wright is nobody's hero tor wanting to use the N Word#Jeffrey Wright and likely EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HIS CO+STARS IN AMERICAN FICTION IS GAY!#Hollywood Gay Mafia Controls Nearly Every Film Being Presented For 2023 Academy of Motion Pictures#Savid Geffen and th Vampires he is responsible for can go straight to hell#American Fiction#You're damn right#Oscars#SAG AFTRA#Critics Choice#SAG#Collider#IGN#Insider#NBC#MSNBC#P Diddy#Will Smith#Quincy Jones
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an assortment of my various stages of questionable good omens headcanons and observations:
✓ Aziraphale doesn't actually read that much, he's more interested in the process of tracking down, acquiring and categorising books. the process of chasing a rare item is very invigorating to him even though it doesn't look like it from outside perspective
✓he enjoys reading relatively few things, and the choices might be rather unpredictable, but if he chooses to read a book, he will get l o s t in it, be it a comedy gold theological tractate or horrible soft-cover smut
✓ he can track down a book's publishing place and time by its watermarks amazingly well and knows all flavours of five bells jokester watermark. he also uses miracles to see the watermark clearer
✓ he was Not on good terms with Oscar Wilde but exchanged a lot of friendly letters with Andersen
✓ Crowley hung around Handel quite a lot. they slacked So Much work together and apart
✓ Crowley did or does enjoy bebop and Aziraphale teases him about his Thelonious Monk fanboy phase non-stop even forty years after
✓ Crowley has taken credit for inventing Minecraft manhunts and watches them himself
✓ they were actually invented by sister Mary Loquacious, but no one knows that because women's heritage in media is constantly getting erased
✓ Aziraphale is a sci-fi nerd. I don't know shit about Star trek but i bet he ships Garashir
✓ Crowley falls asleep instantly if you rustle his hair or scratch his head. Aziraphale uses it to get some alone time without having to ask since they started living together
✓ Aziraphale gets gifted lots of weird ass shit by his human acquaintances which he usually displays in the bookshop to scare off customers
✓ Aziraphale brews home-made kombucha. It's also used to scare off customers. Honestly, have you seen home-made kombucha.
✓ I̷ ̸d̷o̷ ̶n̵o̶t̵ ̵h̵a̴v̶e̶ ̴a̴n̸y̷ ̶h̶e̷a̵d̸c̶a̶n̵o̸n̶s̷ ̸a̶b̴o̵u̵t̴ ̶t̸h̷e̶ ̷c̵o̷n̶t̴e̷n̵t̵s̷ ̵o̴f̷ ̸h̷i̷s̶ ̴b̷a̵s̵e̵m̵e̸n̴t̵
✓ Crowley was a Gary Cooper fanboy in the 1930s. He generally did a lot of fanboying as you can tell
✓ Crowley doesn't hate the tartan pattern and that scene with bicycle straps was not about the pattern at all
✓ Crowley has a very quiet voice with a surprisingly big range - from really low and raspy to squeaky cartoon villain - that he can't really control that well
✓ he's only loud around Aziraphale when he needs to Prove A Point or when he's really REALLY mad
✓ Aziraphale's voice has a distinct sing-songy note to it that can be very calming or very annoying
✓ Aziraphale is really good at tetris
✓ he seldom dabbles in videogames, but when he does, he's lost to society for about a week. he will not come out of it stronger, but he will come out with all the secret spots and achievements possible and maybe a couple more
✓ Aziraphale enjoys making the most horrible choices in videogames and seeing where they lead. Since Crowley's learned to plug in his computer and discovered the rpg genre, he's always acted quite nice to most npcs. Both would never admit it.
✓ you've heard of mandatory The Sound of music seances in Heaven, now prepare for mandatory Grinch for team building and inspiration in Hell. Crowley cries every time.
✓ Crowley never grows flowers because he feels kinda bad for yelling at them, but he has lots of floral patterns in his clothes and home décor. They're all, of course, very cool
✓ both Aziraphale and Crowley find scholastic philosophy hilarious and silently respect the other one for the joke. Neither of them had anything to do with it
✓ Crowley has some scales on his body but when people happen to see them they take it for a skin condition
✓ Aziraphale feels very uncanny to some people, usually to those who understand that reality is strange and unknowable, therefore are open to perceiving part of his angelic nature
✓ Crowley is generally a bit creepy but he tries and fails hard to be friendlier
✓ his stressed-out communication mode is absent-minded politeness that may come off as sarcasm if you're not attentive to the tone
✓ Crowley loves jewellery, in 20th century this love was translated onto watches and chains
✓ Aziraphale is very open to new tastes while Crowley sticks to his comfort foods and is a very picky eater in general. But if he likes something, he is Not moderate. It goes the opposite way for clothing
✓ Aziraphale always keeps some sweets in his bookshop in case Crowley comes by. He himself doesn't have a sweet tooth and will always prefer something more savoury
✓ Aziraphale swears rarely but strongly. Crowley swears all the time but rather toothlessly
✓ they enjoyed walking arm in arm since forever and prefer it to holding hands even as a couple
#good omens#headcanon post#those are largely based on my real experiences therefore self-indulgent af
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Since there was no response to those music asks I posted the other day, here’s all my answers anyway, just for the hell of it.
Your favourite album opener: Perhaps my favourite album of all time is Pony Express Record, by Shudder to Think. The opening track, Hit Liquor, is surely one of the boldest, weirdest ways to start a major label rock album. A single snare, then you’re hit by some of the gnarliest, most dissonant chords of the ‘90s. It took time for this album to grow on me, but now there’s no getting rid of it. And with this for an opening track, the album sets a very clear mission statement — which it lives up to. (Honourable mentions to So What by Miles Davis, Giant Steps by John Coltrane, Better Git It In Your Soul by Charles Mingus, Sea Song by Robert Wyatt, The Perfect Me by Deerhoof, All I Want by Joni Mitchell, Uncontrollable Urge by Devo, and so many more I could name if I was able to browse my collection as I write this.)
A song starting with the same first letter as your first name: Absenter, by Jawbox. (This is the 7” single version, not the redone version for the album. I had that single, but I sold it along with the rest of my vinyl collection when I moved. It’s one of only a few things I used to have on vinyl that I can’t seem to get a digital copy of. That and a Robert Fripp album that goes for silly money on CD these days.)
A song outside of your usual genre: I don’t really have one “usual” genre (as evidenced by my answers). That said, I’m generally not a follower of mainstream pop, but Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen is irresistible.
A song that reminds you of your favourite season: I like the transitional seasons — spring, when the winter is thawing and nature comes back to life; and autumn, when the leaves turn all those beautiful colours. (And, not entirely coincidentally, when the temperature is more moderate, neither sweltering nor freezing.) For spring I’ll say April in Paris, played here by Thelonious Monk. For autumn, it’s gotta be Autumn Leaves, particularly this version by Cannonball Adderley.
A song from a lifelong favourite artist: I first became a fan of the Beatles at age 9. Nearly 30 years later, I still love their music. Picking the artist is a no-brainer. The specific song, however… Because of the memories of singing it in harmony with my Mum, I’ll say Nowhere Man.
Your current “on repeat” song: Literally the only songs I play on repeat are my own when I’m working on them. Generally I prefer to listen to whole albums. The same song twice in a row annoys me unless I’m in work mode. (STAR STUFF OUT NOW ON BANDCAMP.)
A song your friend introduced you to that you ended up loving: My friend Den and I have a running joke that it takes me at least 5 years to start liking his recommendations. For example, he showed me Break Up Your Band by Chavez one day. Years later I re-played it and went “oh, actually this is amazing”, bought all their music (all two of their albums…) and became an ardent fan. (The music sounds like so obviously my kind of thing, I don’t know why I didn’t just love it immediately. My reactions are slow, okay?) A more recent example, my friend Mike got me to appreciate Peg by Steely Dan (after he pointed out how it was sampled by De La Soul in Eye Know). I had always written them off as airless, slick, MOR crap. Turns out they’re actually fun. (Slick still stands though, but turns out it’s a good slick.)
A song that speaks the words you couldn’t say: I Think It’s Going to Rain Today, by Randy Newman. (Especially the solo performance from his Songbook album.) It stirs up a deep sadness in me, a melancholy too strong and too deep for words.
A song that captures your aesthetic: Do I even have an aesthetic? If I do it’s probably normcore or something. I don’t like to call attention to myself visually. I’m not sure that’s captured in a song, at least not one I can think of.
A song about the place where you live: I’m not sure there are many songs about my specific little town, but my nearest city (Oxford) has inspired a few. Strange Ones, by Oxford’s own Supergrass, is inspired by the Cowley Road, where some of my favourite music venues and shops are/were.
A song by an international artist: Everybody is an international artist, are they not? 🤔 But to pick an artist who is from somewhere other than the UK (where I’m from) or the US (the most over-represented country in my collection) and who sings in a language I don’t speak — the brilliant Juana Molina is from Argentina, and Eras is a particularly excellent song.
A song you can scream all the words to: I don’t have the lung capacity for screaming, but I know all the words to a fair few songs. (Though I can be quite forgetful on stage, ahem…) How about A New England, by Billy Bragg?
A reboot of a song/songs you already loved (remix, mashup, acoustic, etc.): I’m not sure I fully understand this question, I’ve never heard a song called a reboot in my life. Does this include cover versions? I’m going to assume it does. So, a cover version I like while also liking the original… Stevie Wonder’s version of We Can Work It Out, originally by the Beatles.
A song with the name of a place in the title: California, by Joni Mitchell. This is a live performance from the BBC in 1970. If you only click one of these links, make it this one.
A song that reminds you of travelling: I spent the first 20-something years of my life compulsively listening to music on headphones whenever I was in the car, so certain albums remind me of certain times, places, trips… I remember listening to Joanna Newsom’s first album while on a family holiday in Scotland, watching the hillsides go past the window. The Sprout and the Bean is my favourite track from that album. (Still can’t get my head around the fact she’s married to Andy Samberg!) Also Secrets by Mission of Burma reminds me of watching raindrops crawl up the windscreen while we drove along the motorway in the rain. I can’t remember the destination or the year, just that image.
Your favourite childhood song: I’m not sure I could pick — but according to my parents, the first thing they ever heard me sing along to was Hip To Be Square, by Huey Lewis and the News.
A song that reminds you of a good time: Seeing the Bad Plus with Wendy Lewis in 2010 remains the best gig I’ve ever attended. I still remember the moment after they’d just played Radio Cure (originally by Wilco) and my dear friend Alan (sadly now departed) turned to me and said a single, awestruck word: “Amazing.” It truly was.
A song that reminds you of a bad time: I was listening to Fuck This Band by Mclusky when my car was hit head-on by another car mistiming their overtaking manoeuvre. That was pretty bad. (“Fun” fact: My headphones flew off but my glasses stayed on.)
A song from an artist whose old music you enjoy more than their new music: Honestly that’s most artists up to a point. But to name a band I adored as a teen, but who I’ve completely ignored since they reformed… Stand Inside Your Love, by Smashing Pumpkins. (From the last officially released album they made that I bothered with.)
A song that empowers you: I empower my own damn self.
A song from a local artist: Snow, by my lovely friends in Lucy Leave.
A song you related to in the past and present, but for different reasons: No idea how to answer this one, sorry. (I guess the obvious answer would be Father and Son, by Cat Stevens, but I could relate to both sides at any given moment, so…) Instead, how about a song I liked for a long time, but didn’t relate to until later? Dead of Winter, by Eels, written by the singer about losing his mother to cancer. Always a touching song, but my teenage self had no idea how much I would relate to it when, almost 20 years later, I lost my Mum to cancer too.
Your favourite cheesy pop song: I think I already mentioned Call Me Maybe. Cheesiness is subjective (and it’s generally not a quality I appreciate, even in detached irony)…. But damn this is such a charming song.
A song from a soundtrack (musical, movie, video game etc): I Know Things Now, from the original Broadway cast recording of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods. I could’ve picked so many Sondheim songs, I’m not sure why this was the first through the door of my imagination… but I’ll take it.
The song currently stuck in your head (or the song you’re listening to right now): I’m currently listening to Igor Stravinsky’s Petrushka, performed by the Cleveland Orchestra conducted by Pierre Boulez.
A song that taught you a lesson: James K. Polk, by They Might Be Giants, taught me about the political career of James K. Polk, eleventh president of the USA. “In 1844, the Democrats were split…”
An instrumental song: How about an entire instrumental album? Live From A Shark Cage, by Papa M (aka David Pajo). I’m particularly fond of Arundel, but the whole album is beautifully sombre, understated, and well worth your while.
A song you always skipped, but ended up loving it once you listened to it: When I first got Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band on cassette when I was a kid, I always wound on past “that weird Indian-sounding one” at the start of side two. Now I’d say Within You Without You is one of my favourite tracks on the album. It always pays to relisten to the skippable tracks every few years, your opinion may have changed. (Doubt I’ll ever love Don’t Pass Me By, though…)
Your favourite album closer: Another tough question but the one that springs to mind is In Your Eyes, by Peter Gabriel, the last track of So… as long as you’re not listening to the original vinyl version, which had a different tracklist to the CD because of reasons.
Your all-time favourite song: I have absolutely no idea how to judge that. But perhaps the song that has come to mean most to me is Rainbow Connection. I’ve been performing my own cover of the song for years, to the point that it feels like “mine”. My friends Ben and Poppy shared their first dance to it at their wedding, which was a great honour. And my Mum chose it to play at her funeral. There are songs I might think are technically better, but nothing will be as meaningful to me personally.
#asks#music#music asks#questionnaire#yeah nobody sent me any asks so I just answered them all anyway#you’re welcome I guess
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Locked -
Taehyung
Smut with Taehyung in Paris what could be better? 19+
Happy Birthday Taehyung! You are my sun my moon and all of my stars.
Part of the The Juis Suis Fou de Toi Universe.
Artist Tae AU. 4213 words.
While convincing his girlfriend he should paint her, things get a little sexually abstract.
Contains sex (M/F), Oral (M) Mutual Masturbation (M/F), Swearing, Slight Dom Tae, OC is insecure. Do not be fooled before the read more, there is no cheating in this fic.
"We're almost home, please don't make me carry you."
Yeontan looked up with big eyes as he defiantly sat in the middle of the sidewalk. Crouching down to his level in defeat you tore a piece of your pastry off and began bargaining.
"It's strawberry your favorite, you can have some if you just stand up."
He let out a little bark seemingly in agreeance with the bribe and stood, tail wagging frantically.
"Tannie," Taehyung scooped the excited dog into his arms while placing a kiss on your cheek.
"Camille, this is my girlfriend Y/N and this," Yeontan wiggled in his arms while licking his face, "is Tannie."
"Oh, Hi."
Shocked you took in the tall gorgeous blonde who accompanied you boyfriend. Why Taehyung was walking around the streets of Paris with her you were unsure, and honestly not very happy.
"It's really nice to meet you Camille."
Suddenly feeling self conscious you pulled your coat tighter around yourself.
Taehyung, noticing the sudden shift in your mood wrapped his arms around your waist.
"Camille is helping me with the gallery opening. We were going to grab some dinner before we started. Do you want to join us?"
Your mind raced, what do you do? He hadn't invited you in the first place so obviously you'd be intruding.
If you stayed he'd be looking at you side by side, comparing Pomme to Pomme De Terre. But, if you left they'd be alone, getting to know one another or worse. Maybe they already knew each other better than they should.
In either scenario your insecurities would be winning.
"Tannie's getting pretty tired and I was going to stop at the Butcher to grab us dinner." Your eyes fell on his searching for guilt and found nothing but adoration. "But I guess you've already got plans so I'll just catch up with you later."
He passed the dog back to you, a new look of concern on his face.
"Okay, I guess I'll just see you at home later," he kissed your cheek.
"Bye Tannie, bye Y/N."
The woman smiled and looped her arm through Taehyung's as they walked towards the cafe.
"That doesn’t mean anything right Tan? It’s just a French thing I’m sure.” You must be going crazy standing in the street talking to your dog. “So, how do you feel about stopping for some wine?"
You frowned at your four legged companion and for once he seemed sympathetic offering a head tilt and a whimper.
"Don't worry, you can have his Steak."
Walking home in a daze you searched your memory, had he told you about this? Taehyung liked to work alone, surely you'd remember him mentioning he'd hired an assistant.
Your feet had suddenly become as tired as your mind. The blue mansard roof of your apartment peeked through the greenery of the blowing trees urging you forward, calling you home.
Rounding the last corner, the Pont Des Arts had been covered in gaudy yellow caution tape. In the hour and a half you'd been out, workers had begun pulling off rail sections of the love locked bridge.
You felt dizzy, was this a sign? The lock that you'd placed on it signifying your commitment was being taken away. Helpless you stood watching thousands of couples promise's to one another being disassembled.
Pulling your phone from your satin lined pocket your first instinct was to text Taehyung.
Y/N: I can't believe it, they're dismantling the bridge and taking away our lock 💔 I'm so sad Taehyung, It really meant so much to me.
Tears rolled down your cheek as you reevaluated the message. Instead of hitting send you deleted and replaced your words
Y/N: The bridge is under construction, maybe take a different way home later.
You hadn't heard him come home and had no idea how late he'd been out. With sadness and worry getting the best of your brain, sleep seemed like the only way to curb your anxiety. It had been quite an effective method until you found yourself wide awake tiptoeing through your house in the wee hours of the morning.
The worn floorboards creaked underneath your slow step, the vintage wood was cold to the touch of your bare feet. The old apartment was drafty on the best of days but 4 am carried its own specific type of chill.
A shiver ran up your spine, perhaps one of Le Marais famous revolutionary ghosts had joined in on the quest to find your boyfriend. Or maybe it was just the ominous feeling in the pit of your stomach that the universe was trying to tell you something.
A faint light glowed yellow under the warped door at the end of the hallway and the sounds of Thelonious Monk's piano drifted through the air the closer you got.
The painted metal door handle gave way opening to a wall of heat from the radiators lining the enormous windows.
"Go figure I'd find you in the warmest room in the house."
He was shirtless and seemingly debating the fate of the canvas before him. With his paintbrush clenched between his teeth he turned, a huge smile warming you instantly.
"Why aren't you in bed?" He set the brush down and walked over to wrap you in his embrace.
"I don't like sleeping without you, you're the only thing that keeps me warm in that freezer of a bedroom."
You stood on your tiptoes to place a peck on his lips.
"What are you working on? Is it for the gallery?"
He sighed heavily, "Just another Lavender Field I guess. I'm so uninspired. Why won't you just let me paint you, hmm?"
His fingers splayed over the lace covered small of your back pulling you in tighter. "What are you so afraid of."
"Tae," you buried your face into the crook of his neck. "Isn't the point of art painting things that people want to look at? You should be painting women like Camille not me."
Pressed to his chest you swear you heard his breath halt. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully before he spoke softly.
"Camille is pretty but there is absolutely nothing unique or inspiring about her."
He kissed the top of your head before tugging on your chin to make you look at him.
"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, but you are a terribly uncooperative muse."
"I don't want to be Tae, I'm just afraid"
"What is there to be afraid of? It's just you and me, If you don’t like it I'm the only one who will see it."
"That's it though, what if…" a tear slipped from your eye, "What if you don't like what you see, what if painting me makes you see all my flaws. I can't stand looking in the mirror for 5 minutes and you want to immortalize my every imperfection on a canvas."
His face was soft and serious, the lights from the city streaming through the large windows across his honey skin.
"Sweetheart, how do I make you believe me? I never want you to be uncomfortable but I think if I can show you how you look through my eyes you'll understand what my heart sees every time I look at you.”
Stepping back from him you nodded. Sliding the thin straps off your shoulders you stepped out of the white lace puddle that now lay at your feet.
"Okay."
His face lit up like he'd received divine inspiration.
"I have an idea."
He scurried for a palate, squeezing colors on it like a man possessed. Rummaging for the right brushes he returned presenting them to you like a cat who'd dragged home a mouse.
"Trust me?"
You nodded, "I do."
Loading his brush with paint you stood waiting for him to lay the first stroke to the oversize canvas leaning on the wall beside you.
Raising the tool to his mouth he exhaled a warm breath over it as if trying to take the chill off.
"I've never seen this technique before"
"It's because I've only just invented it."
He ran the paintbrush down your torso sending a shiver from head to toe.
You gasped, "You're not just painting me... you're literally painting Me?"
The biggest smile overtook his face, "You said you trusted me."
Trying to remain still and not ask questions you watched him work. Diligently mixing colors and trading brushes his design slowly revealed itself.
"Are you painting me as starry night?"
He stepped back to admire his work. "Like the stars, you guide and inspire me. I think it captures your spirit."
He shifted the canvas so it was flat to the wall.
"Come over here." He reached for your hand, "Are you ready? I want you to press yourself against it."
"Here?"
Sliding in close behind you he raised your arms into position, holding them up.
"Like this, right here."
His breath felt hot on your skin and your nipples hardened with his words. Gently he used his body weight to press you onto the canvas.
"Now step back to me slowly."
Pulling back, the paint had transferred to the canvas. It was stamped with starry breasts, stomach and thighs, it was you and it was beautiful. He dragged his lips down your shoulder as you stood looking at it.
"Now let's do the right side."
You repeated the process but this time you could feel him growing hard against you. His hands trailed down your sides and his lips moved warm against your ear.
"You've never been sexier."
His rumbles of admiration set your insides on fire.
"Taehyung I want you."
All the gentle brush strokes and touching had left you aroused aching for him to fill you.
"Do you need me to take care of you baby?"
He slid his cloth covered cock over your bare ass, grinding, teasing, slowly torturing your needy cunt.
"Fuck you until you're screaming my name?"
Sliding two long fingers deep inside you he held them there motionless.
Leaning over you, dominating, he growled into your ear.
"Show me how you like it, fuck my fingers like you want to fuck my cock."
You clenched immediately around his digits and he laughed, "that's my dirty girl, now use me to make yourself feel good."
Throbbing wet and desperate you used his hand to pleasure yourself. Harder and deeper it felt good but it wasn't him.
"Tae, It's not enough I need your cock."
He snickered again, "why is that, maybe you should tell me."
He reached his free hand around to pinch your nipple.
The truth was, nothing could satisfy you once you'd had him inside you. He was huge and perfect and he knew how insatiable you were for him.
"I need you to stretch me, wanna feel you against my cervix fucking me so hard."
You sounded whiny and it flipped the switch inside him from teasing to wanting instant gratification.
Pulling his hand away from your breast he undid his pants and kicked them away. His erection fell against your ass as he pressed you back to the center of the canvas.
"Right here, arms up for me."
You did as you were told as he took a stance behind you lining himself with your entrance. He could be the most generous gentle lover when needed but right now you both wanted something animalistic and dirty.
Thrusting hard and deep your whole body slid in an upward motion streaking the paint vertically onto the canvas.
"Fuck."
It was pleasure, it was pain and it was satisfying to your core.
"Is that enough for you?" His large hand feel heavy against your ass.
"Harder."
"Such a greedy little girl you are."
Another thrust and you were seeing stars. Splayed across the canvas your cheek dragged through the midnight blue acrylic.
Trying to desperately catch your breath your mouth hung open panting the words fuck me and faster while he pumped furiously into you.
His fingertips traveled from their grip on your hip to the protruding bud engorged with arousal that lay starved for attention between your thighs. He pressed and rolled your clit softly in contradiction to the rough pounding your pussy was taking.
"Tae."
His name moaned out of your mouth and it was the only signal he needed to know he'd done his job. He slowed his hips and pulled you down impaling you onto his cock until your walls convulsed around him. He held you there, still for a minute until your senses had come back and you were able to stand on your own.
His mouth hung open in a grin while his erection still stood hungry for more.
Pulling the canvas from the wall he laid it on the ground.
"I think this painting needs some pretty little knee marks on it."
"Show me where." It was your turn to tease.
He pointed where he wanted you to kneel and shoved his finger into your mouth.
"Right there, and right here," he stroked your tongue with his thumb.
He pulled his finger away and rubbed his tip around your lips.
Opening up wide for him he gently began fucking your mouth. Head was always a challenge given his size so it was never rushed.
Gingerly you wrapped your hands around him stroking the length that didn't fit in your mouth. His head was thrown back, eyes closed as puffs of air heaved from his chest in pleasure.
He was getting close, his now careless thrusts began making you choke around him.
"Fuck, sorry," he pulled back.
You kitten licked and sucked at his tip while he wrapped his hand tightly around himself and began rubbing.
You looked up at him from the position on your knees. His beautiful body was covered in paint splatters everywhere it had connected with yours
"Fuck Tae, I love watching you touch yourself."
"Yeah?" he took a long stroke thumbing the tip.
"Yeah," you could feel yourself getting worked up again.
"Lay back. "He stood over you, "Can you see how beautiful I think you are now?" His hands wandered between his legs and he rubbed his balls with one while he resumed stroking with the other. "How sexy I think you are?"
His words washed over you, arousal peaking you nipples.
"When I can't find inspiration I imagine you just like this and I masturbate thinking about your perfect tits."
Your pussy was pulsing at the thought of him in here clearing his head by milking himself.
"Can you touch yourself for me? Give my imagination something to use next time I'm stuck in here?"
You nodded, breath heavy in anticipation of cumming again for him.
"Stick your fingers in your pussy for me."
You did, moaning instantly. You were sensitive, every nerve was lit like a fuse ready to explode. Pumping your fingers in time with his strokes you were both unravelling quickly.
His exasperated breathing got louder signaling his immanent release. Picking up speed he came in warm droplets that landed on you and over the canvas on which you lay.
So turned on watching him you finished your own orgasm mere seconds after he did.
Opening his eyes looking down at you shocked he smiled, "Did we just do that?" He held out his hand to help you up.
"Yeah, I think we did." you blushed.
Grabbing a clean drop cloth from the shelf he draped it around you as you both stood looking over the painting.
"It's really not bad, I can still make out the important parts. The way the stars smeared looks intentional like their shooting through the sky."
Laughing you shook your head, "It's definitely an abstract."
"As are you," he turned you to the mirror. Painted cheeks, wild hair, dried yellow stars flaking off the skin of your stomach.
"Let's go out!” He abruptly declared. “I want to see you all messy and fucked out with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop."
"You're crazy Taehyung, What will people think?"
"They'll think they're in Paris and that an artist and his muse just made wild passionate love in the wee hours of the morning because they couldn't stand to keep their hands off of one another."
He grabbed his coat from the corner and tied the belt tightly around your waist.
Placing his hands on your cheeks and cradling your face his lips pressed and lingered against yours.
"They'll think, that must be what true love looks like and they’ll all be jealous."
Taking leisurely steps across the bridge the quiet of dawn was only broken by the water lapping beneath you. The absence of the locks amplified the little wakes and you tried to mentally record them as one of the many new memories you'd made tonight.
Coffee in one hand and Taehyung's in the other. He pulled pieces of chocolatine from the bag tucked under his arm and fed them to you as you walked.
"I don't think I'm ever going to get over the fact you don't like coffee." You took a big sip.
"It's strategic. If I had to hold a coffee and the pastry bag I wouldn't be able to hold your hand."
He stopped abruptly lightly jarring your arm.
"Hey, Did you know that right here, this is the exact spot we first met."
His dark eyes reflected the lamplight just like they did as he looked at you that night.
"You were leaning over the rail," he pointed, "right here, waving to the passengers in the boats."
"Ughh, I was such a tourist." You laughed in retrospect.
He took the coffee from your hand and set it on the base of the lamppost.
"Go pose for me, I want to take your picture so I can paint you from the night we met, I'll even add the locks back in."
"It won't be the same." You sighed, "I'm covered in paint, my hair's a mess and all I have on is your trench coat."
"You're crazy if you think I don't remember everything about the way you looked. How that loose strand of hair fell," he tucked your hair behind your ear, "and still falls over your eye. You had on that green sweater, I remember It was so soft against my fingertips when I reached out to hold your hand.”
He kissed you and whispered, "Let me have that moment again."
"You're such a hopeless romantic my love." You smiled fondly and obliged. Leaning over and looking down you re-enacted the opening scene of your meeting.
After a few minutes of waving to an imaginary boat you turned giggling. "Did you get what you wanted?"
He was kneeling on the ground a few feet away looking pensive.
"Almost."
"Do you want me to do it again?"
His smile grew as his hand reached into his pocket and he held up what appeared to be a padlock.
"No," He paused. "I want you and I to be locked together forever."
Turning back towards the rails you inspected them closely. "I don't think we can Tae, they pretty much made them lock proof." By the time you'd spun back to face him he was standing beside you.
His large hand was wrapped around the lock with only little glimmers of metal peeking out.
"But this is a magic lock. I'm going to give you the key and you're going to have to make a decision, just like when we first met." He pressed the lock's pronged companion piece into your palm while simultaneously unfurling his fingers.
"Marry me?"
Shocked floored, not even an ounce of intuition had told you this was coming. Hooked onto the shackle an enormous pear shaped diamond awaited your answer.
"Tae," your hand shook and tears blurred your vision as you moved to free the ring from it's restraint.
"Of course, Yes." Turning the key Taehyung pulled the lock apart and slid the diamond onto your finger.
Under the lamp, on the bridge in the middle of Paris it was like lightning had struck twice. You stood kissing the man who'd once again changed your life.
"But what are we going to do with the Lock?" The bridge was stark under the first rays of sunrise and heartbreakingly void of the promises it once guarded.
"So superstitious." He put the lock back in his pocket. "You're just going to have to hold on to that key until the time is right."
Fresh paint overwhelmed your senses. Guiding you with his large hands he steered you forward for what felt like forever.
"Is the blindfold necessary?"
"In order to surprise you, yes, yes it is."
He'd been working hard on his new exhibition and it had been kept tightly under wraps. One advantage of sleeping with the artist was the private advanced viewing from the curator himself.
"Are you ready?" he stilled you adjusting your angles. "Hold out your hand."
"Oh, it's an interactive piece?" you chided him. "I agree to do one painting and suddenly we're Marina and Ulay."
Placing something that felt like cool metal into your palm he slipped the blindfold off.
Before your eyes stood a huge section of railing, thousands of padlocks adorning it. Behind the rail, a life size painting, a girl in a green sweater. Leaning forward she waved, looking happy, as her hair blew softly. Her eyes naïve, not knowing she was about to fall in love.
The words on the wall named the piece, "Locked"
"Tae," a tear fell in awe at his recreation. "You made me look beautiful."
"No mon petite, you make you look beautiful. Do you have your key?"
Lifting the chain from around your neck you held it up for him.
"Let's find our lock. It was closer to the top if I recall correctly."
"There's no way? This isn't a recreation? This is the real bridge?"
He laughed, "I know what it meant to you. They were selling pieces for charity. That's what I was really doing with Camille that day. She's a broker for the auction house."
The memory of your insecurities came back in a flash and your cheeks blushed pink at how foolish the notion of him straying seemed now.
"Here it is!" He crouched down holding it in his hand, your inked initials a little worn but still visible.
Slipping your key into the new lock you popped it open and knelt down beside him. Hooking it through the original it stood out higher than the rest and you both smiled.
"You're stuck with me now, triple locked." He fiddled with your ring suddenly shy.
"I don't need metaphors to know we'll be together forever Taehyung." You kissed his soft lips. "but I really like them."
The gallery had been taken over by a hum of excitement, the air hanging heavy, was full of compliments and bids. Everyone was clamoring for the chance to own a Kim Taehyung original.
You hadn't seen the man of the hour in a while. You'd been kept dutifully in one spot regaling everyone with the romantic story behind the girl waving on the bridge.
Finally breaking away you grabbed a glass of champagne from the nearest waiters tray and made your way to the back of the gallery. He stood by a painting you'd yet to see with an eclectic looking woman in large red framed glasses. Her bangle bracelets chimed together as she theatrically asked him questions about his work.
Noticing you moving towards him, his face pleaded silently with you to come to his social rescue.
"Ah, the girl in the Green Sweater!" She pulled you into her side grabbing and holding your hand. "Are you also The Reluctant Muse?" she pointed to the secretly cum splatterd piece.
Taehyung held back his smile, biting his lip.
"Yes, I guess I am."
"The abstract way he displayed your body, it's very sexy. You know I used to be someone's muse." She patted the back of your hand. "From the size of this ring I'm guessing you're not nearly as reluctant anymore."
Knocking back your champagne you reached for another, "I'm currently working on lowering my inhibitions."
Focusing back on Taehyung she continued, "I simply have to have this painting, it reminds me so much of my younger days."
He shook his head to reinforce what he was about to say. "Unfortunately this one has already been curated to a private collection." He winked nodding discreetly in your direction.
"Don't be silly, I'll give you $20,000."
You choked on your drink surprised while he reiterated his statement.
"I'm sorry, It's just a very special painting to me."
You had to interject, "Let's not make any hasty decisions."
Taehyung raised a scolding eyebrow, "The piece is simply priceless, I've put too much of myself in it to sell."
You smirked at his secret admission. "What if," feeling emboldened with confidence you put forth the suggestion, "we make it a series?"
Taehyung's eyes lit up as you explained.
"It'll be one of a kind, just for you madam."
Her bangles declared her excitement as she clapped. "Yes, I love that! But I have two conditions."
Leaning forward you both eagerly waited.
“I want extra splatters, I really like the way they look. And I'm going to need it finished in time for my party next week.”
Taehyung shook the woman's hand and grinned proudly at you.
"No problem, we'll start working on it tonight."
#taehyung smut#tae#bts smut#bts#Tae#V#JSFDT series#This is part 2 to an unwritten part 1 because my brain sucks
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High Pulp - Pursuit of Ends
(Nu-Jazz, Jazz Fusion, Neo-Psychedelia)
The jazz fusion collective's sophomore album is a melting pot of music both future and past, jazz harmonies buried in electronic decadence and rhythms derived from breakbeat, dub and hip hop performed on textured, live drum sets. It's an album constantly under the weight of its galactic compositions, but High Pulp manages to keep it all afloat regardless.
☆☆☆½
High Pulp makes music to reroute the universe. Rooted in jazz but expanding their sound with all sorts of collaborators and a sound explosive as molten lava, the Seattle sextet has always been a sonic mystery, easy to tag with the descriptors "psychedelic" and "spacey" but everything else only able to be felt with their music in front of you. Now, with their sophomore album Pursuit of Ends, they push that to the brink with a collection of ten massive and luminous pieces that never let up on the heat and attack you with the force of a thousand supernovas, mixing technically demanding nu-jazz with the rollicking forms of fusion and soul jazz that the band knows best with chunks of other genres that add a tropical taste to these nectarine songs. It comes with some tradeoffs, for sure, but the best thing about Pursuit of Ends is that it chases that magic at any cost, resulting in some of the band's best work to date that makes for a high-spirited affair you can't help but get swept up in. They avoid the sophomore slump by completely upping their game here, taking an even more dense and surrealist take on jazz fusion that sucks you in and spits you out into an entirely new star system. The six main members of High Pulp all call to different eras of music that convene at the center of this multilayered planetary expedition. Keyboardist Rob Homan sounds like Thelonious Monk on sixteen thousand tabs of LSD, a downpour of descending synths on All Roads Lead to Los Angeles falling into soft electric piano chords that guide the bright melodic bounce of Andrew Morill on alto and Victory Nguyen on tenor, their flashbang improvisations reminiscent of 60s hard bop and spacebound nu-jazz at once, and the rhythm section comprised of metal convert Scott Rixon on bass/guitar and maestro drummer Bobby Granfelt give a percussive language to Pursuit of Ends rarely seen in any other albums; Antoine Martel's keyboard work here particularly on the Korg Prologue and Nord Electro cannot go understated either. On their own, High Pulp sounds absolutely amazing: the electronica-inspired rhythms from Granfelt inspire the same innovation and speed felt in the work of Aphex Twin and Flying Lotus as he stitches a killer drum and bass groove into the aforementioned All Roads Lead to Los Angeles or putting a dub spin on jazz fusion with Blaming Mercury as Nguyen toys with a fluttering flute, and Rixon's performances on both bass and guitar show his prowess on both the back and front of the mix shows off the group's chemistry incredibly well while making for some genuinely stunning tracks in the process. What really makes Pursuit of Ends special is the other artist they've got on board for it: features from Jaleel Shaw, Jacob Mann, Brandee Younger and Theo Croker all adding their special touch to the album, Younger's glowing harp work on Wax Hands and the warm brass introduced by Mann to the album's woodwind-heavy compositions on Kamishinjo makes for an unexpected but delightful textural change. It's the only time any brass instrument gets any major presence in the music, trombonists Greg Kramer, Issac Poole and Jerome Smith pop in and out of the tracklist but never enough to find their way to the top of any piece (Smith even throws down some dark tuba harmonies on A Ring on Each Finger), and that fresh sound on each track is what Pursuit of Ends is all about: at its best, the album is one of the most courageous and exploriative instrumental albums this year that pokes and prods at the base of jazz compositional styles with the dozens of genres and mood that have become more prominent and accessible in the internet era, always trying something new and coming out with thrilling results in the end. That's also something that holds a few too many chunks of Pursuit of Ends back, so unrelentingly on the hunt for innovation that it can sometimes forget to shape the songs in an engaging way for the listener. The midsection of the album is where they fall the hardest (possibly the worst time for this to happen when the opening three tracks are so mesmerizing), the chugging breakbeat on Chemical X hypnotic but the song heading nowhere in particular until it flatlines and the six-minute A Ring on Each Finger never establishing a solid presence and losing out on the immersive qualities the rest of the tracklist possesses; the finale with Croker ends up a bit too empty and strangely rigid with the tense groove Granfelt sets up and leaves the album off on a quite unsatisfying note. None of this is to say the album is entirely bad, more than enough of it is fantastic enough to justify a full listen, but as High Pulp have begun chasing something further out into the universe it can seem like they're leaving you behind to watch from afar. And sometimes you don't have to join them on the adventure to still take joy in seeing them soar (Inner Crooner), but without that close-up view of the stars they've got to make up for it somewhere else, and it's too often the case that High Pulp rockets out of the stratosphere without saying a proper goodbye. The reason songs like the deliriously fun Century, with its massive synth swells and constantly shifting dynamics, and the intimate implosion of sound Wax Hands work so much better even when they have the same intricacy to them as the less stellar tracks, and it's because High Pulp brings you on board with those latter tracks to let you see the magic inches away from your face rather than holding it behind the moon like they do on Window to a Shimmering World or You've Got to Pull It Up from the Ground. When they let you indulge as much as they did in making these songs, the agreement made between you and Pursuit of Ends is one with no downsides. Pursuit of Ends, even with all the technicalities and nitpicking aside, is a great release from one of the most innovative new groups on the scene that never sacrifices a modicum of their spirit to try and make the music easier to stomach. These songs are huge and take multiple listens to full digest, High Pulp forcing you to soak up every idea bit by bit until it consumes you fully, Pursuit of Ends always having something new to show you when you focus on something different than you did last time. It's an incredibly beautiful album bogged down by the very thing that makes it beautiful, refinement and fine-tuning being the only things that could heighten an album already as thrilling as this one. Their urgent, unyielding artistry is impeccable in terms of spirit and passion, and whether or not the songs land with you, there's never an inability to sense who High Pulp are and what they're looking to do, and that is by far the most valuable and precious thing a band can have going for them as they continue moving forward. Pursuit of Ends doesn't find the band at their absolute peak, but it takes them so close to it that there's no way you'll want to leave their side.
#high pulp#pursuit of ends#anti#experimental#jazz#jazz fusion#neo-psychedelia#nu-jazz#psychedelic jazz#soul#2022#7/10
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