Lucid Culture

JAZZ, CLASSICAL MUSIC AND THE ARTS IN NEW YORK CITY

Satoko Fujii’s Fukushima Suite: A Harrowing Milestone in Jazz History

A misty haze of white noise – reed and brass players breathing through their instruments – opens the Satoko Fujii Orchestra New York’s harrowing new Fukushima Suite. As a black cloud looms closer and closer on the horizon, Nels Cline’s guitar and effects squiggle, writhe and eventually deliver acidic, distantly lingering chords. That’s just a prelude to shock, and horror, and savage contempt that follow in response to the global attempts to cover up the worst manmade disaster in world history. The album hasn’t hit the usual streaming spots yet – stay tuned.

Hauntingly majestic, elegaic themes stand side by side with litanies of cognitive dissonance in Fujii’s magnum opus, which ranks with the greatest of Shostakovich’s symphonies or Charles Mingus’ jazz broadsides. As a historical document, it’s one of the most important of our time, especially considering that there’s been as relatively little music has written in response to Fukushima as there has been serious scientific inquiry into its lasting effects.

The ensemble’s conductor and leader wrote the five-part, contiguous suite not as a narrative of the grim events of March 11, 2011 but as a chronicle of terror and panic in the wake of the catastrophe. Fujii and her husband, trumpeter Natsuki Tamura, were in Tokyo at the time, roughly a hundred miles from the site of the four reactor meltdowns. Their old stomping ground is now so contaminated with nuclear fallout that if Tokyo was in the United States, it would be a ghost town: off limits not only to human habitation, but also to human traffic. Consider: the most toxic items discovered in the Fairewinds Energy Education study of Japan beyond the Fukushima exclusion zone turned out to be car tires.

Fujii and her highly improvisational large ensemble recorded the five-part suite the day after they debuted it in Brooklyn in May of last year. She said at the time that it had taken her five years to process her reactions in the wake of the disaster. It took the band just a single day to record it, live in the studio.

What’s different about the recorded version? It’s a lot longer, and tighter rhythmically. Amid the cumulo-nimbus sonics of the second movement, Cline’s guitar and Andy Laster’s baritone sax sputter off to the side, but it doesn’t take long before the music coalesces into a steady, relentless sway, propelled by Ches Smith’s elegant but emphatically syncopated drums and Stomu Takeishi’s growling bass. The whole ensemble eventually join in a an ominously ineluctable, distantly Asian-tinged, utterly Lynchian theme, ironically one of the catchiest Fujii has ever written after more than eighty albums.

Much as Fujii equates the sound of breath to hope and health, it’s hard not to imagine the millions of Japanese and Americans on the west coast who were exposed to the lethal clouds that burned for at least a month at the disaster site. So the subtlest touches here, like Smith’s whispery waterfalling and temple-bell effects behind Herb Robertson’s cautious, microtonally nuanced trumpet, stand out even more. That’s amplified by the chilling, chattering cabal of horns  that develops later on, Fujii casting an unforgiving spotlight on greed and duplicity.

Plaintive pairings – sax and drums, bass and guitar – are interspersed amid the towering angst. There’s even gallows humor, notably Tamura’s panting, furtively conspiratorial trumpet. And Fujii finds closure, if very uneasily, at the end. The tightness and tension among the ensemble – also comprising saxophonists Oscar Noriega and Ellery Eskelin, Dave Ballou on trumpet, Joey Sellers, Joe Fiedler and Curtis Hasselbring on trombones – is relentless.

Six years after the catastrophe, what do we know about Fukushima? Not a lot. The Japanese government, fully aware that it was Chernobyl that bankrupted and brought down the Soviet Union, privatized the disaster. The Tokyo Electric Power Company stuck a canopy over the remains of reactor number one – the one that exploded – and later, during a monsoon in late 2015, either allowed millions of gallons of highly radioactive cooling water to pour into the Pacific, or deliberately dumped it. Either way, the one kind of damage control that TEPCO continues to manage very successfully is one of information.

Meanwhile, the government passed a state secrets act that could subject Fukushima whistleblowers to the death penalty. From radioactivity readings on the mainland and in the Pacific, we know that contamination is increasing. The problem in Japan is that after the disaster, a lot of toxic topsoil from the Fukushima area was dug up and left uncovered in roadside piles which continue to leach into the water table. More catastrophically, the 3/11 meltdown burned a hole in the containment vessel of reactor number three, which has been leaking into the Pacific for more than six years now. Radioactivity levels are currently about six to eight becquerels per cubic yard at the California shoreline, increasing to about thirty becquerels thirty miles off the coast.

Human skin protects against low levels of radiation, so brief exposure to California beach water won’t kill you – if it doesn’t get under the skin or in your eyes, that is. And Pacific contaminants aren’t distributed evenly. There are plumes of water that are relatively clean and others that are far more lethal, as evidenced by the massive die-offs of Pacific birds and fish since the disaster. But the bosses at TEPCO obviously don’t care about that – or about Americans in San Diego County, whose main water supply since 2016 has come from a seawater desalinization plant on the Pacific coast.

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December 17, 2017 Posted by | jazz, Music, music, concert, review, Reviews | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Inspired Improvisation from Drummer Devin Gray’s Dirigo Rataplan

Drummer Devin Gray’s recent Dirigo Rataplan – whose name is a mashup of Latin and French, meaning “I direct clip-clop” – is a funky record, especially for improvisational jazz. Bassist Michael Formanek’s full, woody sound complements Gray’s moody, resonantly toned kit – his snare has less snap than boom, and so does everything else for that matter. Gray is an eclectic player, taking the role of both minimalist and colorist here: this is a rare example of no beat going to waste. Saxophonist Ellery Eskelin and trumpeter Dave Ballou round out the band

The opening track, Quadrophonically grows out of a boomy, minimalist pulse into an elegant exercise in two-on-two teamwork, Ballou’s squawk trading with a genial, low-key Eskelin, shadowed by the bass and drums in tandem, rising to anxious and then a sudden calm. Cancel the Cancel features lively, terse horn harmonies over what’s essentially a hip-hop beat: Ballou and Eskelin swipe at each other, then Gray leads everybody down the rabbit hole, back up and down again in to a muffled surrealism that gives absolutely no hint of the surprise ending.

Down Time has the band working variations on a funk tune that go from woozy to wry: Gray’s spare resonance under Formanek’s chords and the horns’ nonchalant bubble is a clinic in how to do more with less. Likewise, early on in the Charles Ives homage Prospect Park in the Dark, Gray builds out of low-key binary horns to a point where most other drummers would bring in the cymbals – but he doesn’t, amping up the nocturnal vibe. Then Formanek tries to pull everybody up with him, but the effect is just the opposite: Gray’s ghostly washes and a final understatedly majestic whoosh put the icing on this crepuscular tableau.

They follow the tersely funky, tongue-in-cheek Talking with Hands with Otaku, spacious microtonally tinged individual lines converging and overlapping, with cleverly dynamic interplay from the whole band, a little trash talking and shadowing, and vividly shifting colors from Gray all the way through. Thickets, a Gerald Cleaver dedication, keeps its moody modalities in disguise until Formanek brings the shivers in – and gets the thing back on track just at the point where it seems like everybody else is ready to shut it down.

The album ends with Katahdin, named for the tallest mountain in Gray’s home state of Maine. There was once a lousy heavy metal cover band by that name – thankfully, this sounds nothing like them. Instead, it’s a catchy, good-natured shuffle that gives Ballou and then Eskelin plenty of space to get sardonic. The compositions’ heads are strong and the playing inspired and on-task: Gray runs a tight ship, knows the strengths of his players and writes to them. New York audiences can watch for a possible rescheduling of the band’s show that was on the calendar at Cornelia St. Cafe last night but may have been postponed for lack of electricity and/or public transit.

November 4, 2012 Posted by | jazz, Music, music, concert, review, Reviews | , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment