Lucid Culture

JAZZ, CLASSICAL MUSIC AND THE ARTS IN NEW YORK CITY

Hot Jazz on a Hot Summer’s Day

The party at Saturday’s slate of hot jazz bands at Central Park Summerstage was out back, on the lawn behind the arena. The picknickers and snuggling couples who’d made that spot their destination were on to something. There are no sightlines back there, unless you sit on somebody’s shoulders, maybe, but the grass has grown in since the hurricane, making a comfortable return to a time that for awhile seemed gone for good.

Inside, a mostly white, monied, youngish crowd slowly grew, milling around aimlessly, lethargic as the sun beat down oppressively on the astroturf. The bleachers to the left and right were packed, especially in the shade of the trees. The tented spaces directly behind the sound booth – which these days is situated at the back of a wide, fenced-off path to the stage – are paid seats reserved for ticketholders who fork over thousands of dollars to sit there, according to one of the many, many ushers working the show. But those seats remained empty for the duration of a concert that went on for over four hours. Then again, hedge funders are not known for their fondness for dancing, or their taste in music, or for any kind of fun in general. What would have been fun would have been to organize a posse to occupy those seats since all that space was going to waste. Needless to say, plenty of people would have jumped at a chance to do that in, say, 1988, when the arena was funded by taxpayer money rather than hedge funders trying to dodge the IRS. Then again, that was also before antidepressants and post-9/11 security paranoia.

On one hand, this concert was a bunch of familiar faces playing familiar material. Then again, that’s a spoiled New Yorker’s view. Many of the creme de la creme of the New York oldtimey swing jazz scene made their way up to the bandstand as the sun made its way slowly across the sky. Trumpter Bria Skonberg served as emcee for the New York Hot Jazz All-Stars, an aptly named pickup band featuring – in no particular order – Anat Cohen on clarinet, Wycliffe Gordon (who’d just played a raptly fun set with Svetlana and the Delancey Five the previous night) on trombone and vocals, Jerron “Blnd Boy” Paxton on banjo, Dalton Ridenhour on piano, Vince Giordano on bass, vocals and bass sax and Joe Saylor on drums. With dixieland flair and expertly bluesy chops, they made their way through a New Orleans-heavy set, Gordon channeling Louis Jordan with similar erudite, unselfconscious verve.

Hot Sardines frontwoman Elizabeth Bougerol, decked out in a dazzling orange pantssuit, sang the most apt song of the afternoon. The wistfully swinging title track to the band’s new album French Fries and Champagne may speak to those on a beer budget with a taste for bubbly, but it’s as much of a guardedly hopeful anthem for those who’ve weathered the past several years’ blitzkrieg of gentrification. Bougerol didn’t mention the UK’s secession from the European Union – Svetlana did that the previous night, with relish – but that’s the first domino. The real estate bubble can’t last much longer. Meanwhile, the band – musical director Evan Palazzo on piano, Jason Prover on trombone, Mike Sailor on trumpet, plus sax, rhythm section and a full string quartet – partied like it was 1929. Bougerol toyed with the beat in a brassy, sometimes languid, sometimes come-hither mezzo-soprano, through a set composed mostly of original, period-perfect continental 1930s style swing numbers. The best of the standards was Bougerol’s insightful bilingual rendition of an old chestnut, titled Comes Love in English, but whose French chorus translates loosely as “Love Is Fucked Up.” They also took a rather farfetched stab at horn-driven countrypolitan along with a misguided remake of a wretched 1980s cheeseball pop hit. Then again, that song was huge in France, and that’s where Bougerol hails from.

Butler, Bernstein & the Hot 9 headlined. By then, the turf had really soaked up the heat and was throwing it back up, and the band onstage reflected that. This is basically trumpeter Steven Bernstein’s return to his roots playing the lively New Orleans-centric swing and pre-swing repertoire he cut his teeth on in Berkeley and then New York before making his own indelible mark as an avatar of noir, and film music, and Jewish jazz. So it was no surprise to hear him leap and snort and fire off one explosive burst after another as pianist Henry Butler boogied and rumbled and barrelhoused, guitarist Matt Munisteri jangling and clanging through every hip voicing in the book as the horns and strings wove an endlessly joyous lattice of southern-fried revelry. Inside, the crowd’s energy level had picked up to the point where it was hard to find a space out of the sun that wasn’t forbidden. Out back on the lawn, there was plenty of space, and relaxation, a good place for starting over when the time comes. And it will. Bring it on.

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June 27, 2016 Posted by | concert, jazz, Live Events, Music, music, concert, New York City, review, Reviews | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Irresistible, Cleverly Sardonic Fun with Uri Caine and the Lutoslawski Quartet

If you missed pianist Uri Caine with the Lutoslawski Quartet at National Sawdust last night, you missed a really fun show. Caine is one of the great wits in music, a category-defying player equally adept at jazz, classical and klezmer. He’d been commissioned by the organizers of the Jazztopad Festival to collaborate with the enterprising Polish string quartet, and the results were obviously contagious. In between numbers, cellist Maciej Miodawski couldn’t resist breaking into a smile, and while his bandmates – violinists Marcin Marcowic and Bartocz Woroch, and violist Artur Rozmyslowicz – were more stoic, there was no mistaking the cameraderie between the five players onstage. An album of their work over the past year together, both in Poland and the US, is due out soon.

The performance was about album-length, half a dozen pieces in total clocking in at around the fifty minute mark. Caine nimbly negotiated long, rapidfire cascades and arpeggiated flurries, interspersed with seemingly haphazard leaps and bounds that sounded like improvisation even though they were obviously not: this group keeps it fresh. Meanwhile, the quartet alternated between gracefully paced circular motives, steady pizzicato and shiftting sheets of atmospherics.

And Caine’s signature sense of humor was ubiquitous: in the wry round-robin of pizzicato that concluded one number, a similarly droll series of glissandos later on, and in the surrealistic juxtaposition of gleaming, Schubertian neoromanticism and increasingly errant variations that were sort of a more elegant take on what Spike Jones might have done with the theme. Caine led the group into the most trad piece of the night, lowlit with his barrelhouse lefthand and gospel allusions, to close the show  The crowd roared for an encore; they didn’t get one .

What was a little surprising was the choice of venue. National Sawdust has world-class sonics and is a perennially enjoyable place to take in a show. On the other hand, the expat Polish community a little to the north and west in Greenpoint is fiercely supportive of their indigenous sounds. A guy as far out as Tomasz Stanko can sell out any one of the wedding halls there. Considering the size of the Polish contingent that made it to this one, the crowd would have tripled in size closer to Greenpoint Avenue.

June 27, 2016 Posted by | concert, jazz, Live Events, Music, music, concert, New York City, review, Reviews | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment