Montreux '75, version intégrale

 

I only just came across - and promptly watched - this great video, which has been up online for at least a year; it appears to be a French (or Swiss?) TV broadcast of the quartet's famous set from the Montreux Festival in 1975, edited portions of which made it onto a well-loved double LP on Arista back in the day (and later to a shorter CD). Fifteen years ago, I wrote about the 1975 portion of the album as part of Braxtothon Phase Four; of course, way back then I didn't know just how much of the original performance had been edited out by Michael Cuscuna, in order to trim the album down to a manageable size.

The headline-level news, then, is twofold: the video itself is terrific - the show having been filmed by multiple cameras and superbly edited for broadcast, and the video recording generally very well-preserved - and must be considered essential viewing for anyone reading this*; and I now know exactly how much material was omitted from the Arista record, as will be laid out below. [Having first watched the video all the way through, I then cued up my old CD-R copy** of the album, and went back through the video, playing the album alongside it in order to see where the edits were made. This turned out to be only mildly frustrating - easier than I expected, if I'm honest - and left me well placed to identify precisely which portions of the concert didn't make it onto disc, almost down to the last second.]

The headline version of that is as follows: Comp. 40n in particular got absolutely butchered, and although it's easy to understand that quite a lot of music had to be excised from the recording in order to shoehorn it into (part of) a double-LP, when you see/hear exactly what sort of music was left out of this number in particular, it leaves the released version looking completely castrated. I always felt that 40n rather flattered to deceive in its released form; now I know why that is. I have no idea whether the complete concert has ever been in circulation among collectors***; what I can confirm is that - once again - it is neither in my collection of tapes nor, apparently, in the voluminous Yale Library archive (assuming I am using the search facility correctly). That makes this video a real treasure, and I am delighted to have seen it. [For anyone who just wants the timing details, I have provided a summary in a comment on the video; a more detailed breakdown will follow below, together with more of my customary delirious ramblings.]

It is worth pointing out that after watching the video, comparing it with the (first part of the) album and leaving my comment, I became aware of an earlier comment (from user alexanderketh8808) which provides both less detail than mine, and more; it also points to a separate video containing just the show's encore, Comp. 40m. (Presumably this was included in another broadcast within the same series: presumably, other concerts from the festival were also presented.) For further details, see the footnote*** below.

Besides restoring the missing music, where the video is really valuable is in its close-up camerawork, capturing the techniques of all four musicians as they played the sounds which most people reading this will already have heard. This is of course the main difference between a video prepared professionally by a production team, and one shot on an audience member's phone: these days, handheld devices have such high-definition lenses in them that one might be tempted to think that there is nothing to be gained by having a film crew at all, but that really isn't the case. Sounds obvious - and it is; but watching this really brought that home to me#. Having done a run-through of (most of) the music already, I am not about to do so again, except for the passages which are not included on the original album; mainly what I want to do here is highlight the qualities in what was cut out, but I'll also flag up some examples of what sets the video apart from the audio.

***

Of course, as well as highlighting the brutal nature of the editing for the album, this footage also indirectly highlights the skill of Michael Cuscuna and his team in preparing that album in the first place. It is obvious just from the running time that plenty of material had to have been chopped out; besides, I had already heard more than enough complete shows by B's small groups to know that they are not typically presented in the way they appear to be on the album: a number is played, the group stops, applause follows - and silence - before the next piece. Rather, once they are underway they tend to flow seamlessly through multiple territories - primary or otherwise - until their conclusion; occasionally we might get an actual hiatus between numbers, as heard in Dortmund '76, but this really is the exception, not the rule. However, the decisions involved in preparing this material for release would have necessitated very clean breaks in two places - immediately following the end of Comp. 23j / track one## and again at the end of Comp. 40(o) - and in order to avoid a truncated and jarring silence, applause is grafted on which doesn't strictly belong there: not that there wasn't any during the show, but what the album listener hears following these two tracks is applause from elsewhere, presumably from the end of the concert. A trickier piece of editing-magic was required in order to bring the opening number to a manageable length: actual musical content had to be taken out of a continuous performance. Leaving aside the mutilation involved in doing such a thing, the way in which this outcome was achieved is nonetheless quite impressive (in that the listener is not smacked in the face by it). You do have to be paying very close attention, in other words, in order to work out where and how it's done on the record. 

So, credit duly given. Now we turn to the matter of what's missing, or rather, what is here on the video that was missing from the record. It's worth noting that even the Anthony Braxton Project only lists this session as having included the pieces which are on the Arista release, and makes no mention either of any other material, or even of the fact that the set opener ran much longer than it does on the album; indeed it goes so far as to note that B. does not play either contrabass clarinet or alto sax on the first number, which is not true - it is only true of what is included on the record. This first number is completely changed in character by virtue of what had to be left out, in order to make a smooth edit and ensure a workable running time for the first side of the LP.

Comp. 40n, described summarily as a "Concert A drone structure" in the catalog(ue) of works###, is actually another example of the kind of thing which must have got Ira Gitler and his ilk so hot under the collar. A very open-ended piece with the potential to go off in all sorts of different directions, it is reduced on the album to something quietly ominous and ruminative, with the drone-centred opening more or less giving way to a bass passage (thanks to the edit), and by the time we emerge from the other side of that, we are well on the way to approaching the much more bop-flavoured 23j. This is how it is easy to remember the piece, and it's not totally accurate, since the first couple of minutes do actually include some much more playful and free-spirited sounds in between the two arco passages, but the sheer variety included in the (approximately) six minutes and forty seconds which Cuscuna slashed from the piece is jaw-dropping, and utterly changes one's perception of the work. 

Even by comparison with the record, it is obvious that there is a bit missing at the start of the TV broadcast: after a short title sequence, the music fades in at 0.26, and although it is not that noticeable unless you go looking for it, checking it against the released version reveals that we are starting in medias res. Exactly how much is missing from the beginning, I have no way of knowing^; what does seem clear is that we are still in the opening section of the piece, with Holland bowing out a rock-steady drone. From here, the first two minutes or so run exactly as per the record, up to about 2.45 in the video. To be precise, at 2.42 B. takes the sopranino away from his mouth, and as if on cue, the whole band falls briefly silent - which of course provides the producer-editor with the opportunity he needed. On record, we now jump ahead to the passage beginning at 9.23, give or take the odd second. In real time, things go differently: Wheeler peels off some bright attacks on trumpet while B. switches to alto and starts pecking out some of his trademark "kisses", and although some quite fiery playing has Wheeler wanting to join in, he changes his mind (3.14) as B. switches instrument again, this time picking up the clarinet. Everyone resumes playing, but by 3.42 Holland has initiated the drone again, and B. switches again, back to alto. The music is fluctuating and shifting, every few seconds. The leader immediately starts to let rip on alto, and the intensity of the band builds in sympathy, leading to yet another change from B., back to sopranino at 4.17, and from here the music just goes wild. By 4.40 we are in an ambience of tightly controlled chaos, riding a storm. Each cluster of activity is short in duration, and moods flicker in and out very quickly, the players picking up from each other with seemingly telepathic speed, always ready to respond or change direction at very short notice. 

Around 5.50, we see B. strapping on the paperclip seamonster, and yes, although we would never know this from the official recording, before six minutes is on the clock the audience is being treated to the sound of the maestro's contrabass clarinet. This is an example of where we benefit from the multiple camera angles: close-ups show us the fingering positions in detail, and other viewpoints show the whole body as the maestro wrestles this fearsome beast under his control. The visual editor ensures we get plenty of both. At 6.51, the camera is focussed on the maestro's left hand, but we can still see Holland's face behind him, shaking his head in what appears to be amazement at the dexterity with which B. handles what must surely be an extremely difficult instrument to play. Following this bravura display, Wheeler cuts loose on his favoured flugelhorn, whilst B. trades lowest for highest again in briefly picking up the sopranino, before changing his mind and trading it once more for flute: just keeping track of the different horns he uses in the first ten minutes is almost dizzying, though one would really know never that from listening to the record. As B. tears up his flute, Wheeler himself switches back to trumpet, and the music sweeps on, very free and open and all, it must be said, decidedly non-jazzy - in a manner which must have driven the more staid and stuffy critics to fits of apoplexy. 

As the leader signs off on flute, Holland has begun bowing out what sounds rather like a Kelvin-series repetition theme (but isn't), and from around 9.24 on the video, we are finally back to the music which appears on the record. From here, I managed to synchronise the CD-R and the video perfectly, and can thus vouch for the fact that the record follows the performance exactly, all the way through the remainder of 40n, the transition phase leading towards 23j (the thirteenth minute, with the next territory being glimpsed ever-more clearly for those who are familiar with the next piece) and Comp. 23j proper, which begins at 12.56 and ends smartly at 26.13. On record, of course, Cuscuna has immediately stopped the recording and transplanted in some phantom applause; in performance, whilst there was some enthusiastic applause, there was no break in the music, just a one-second pause as Altschul immediately launches into a drum solo (having been the only player who didn't take one during the last number). This lasts more than three minutes, showcases the percussionist's restless creativity and versatility as well as his technique - using just about every surface on his kit, including the rims - and is of course completely omitted from the album.

As the drum solo winds down, B. has once more picked up his clarinet, and around 29.40, as the applause for Altschul dies away, we are back with the album at the start of (the protracted transition phase ultimately leading up to) Comp. 40(o). Technically it could be said that the actual piece does not commence until 33.00, as that is when B. first starts playing the actual written theme, gradually joined by the rest of the band; but from as early as 32.20 it's been completely obvious what is coming next. Again, the record follows precisely what was played at this point, until 36.43 when 40(o) is brought sharply to a close; again, on the record this is followed by the sound of applause only, and of course when side two continued, it was with an entirely different piece, played by a different version of the band, in a different venue, the following year. Back in Montreux, there is no such climax as the playing resumes at once: B. (on alto) and Holland begin crooning gently to each other, and we are easing our way into a third transition phase, which will eventually coalesce around 39.30 into Comp. 23g - and of course there is no mention of this, anywhere on any edition of The Montreux / Berlin Concerts. Just as with the eight-minute encore, Comp. 40m - in a separate video, as mentioned above - the set closer has been pretty much erased from history, as far as most people are concerned; for anyone who is not a Braxton obsessive, this scarcely matters a jot as both the missing numbers were waxed in the studio by the same band, that same summer. For those of us who are, both numbers are well worth watching: the encore is taken at pretty high speed and is very intense, and 23g - being aired to the public long before the term "pulse track" was in use - is a minor miracle, the tension created by the entirely independent rhythm track against the written theme being harnessed for terrific solos by both B. and Wheeler. Somehow, Holland and Altschul manage to remain firmly locked in step with each other, even amidst B's alto flights, and once again we're deep into the sort of territories in which the Jazz Police must have felt hopelessly, head-shakingly lost. As for Comp. 40n, this really was some advanced music for its time^^, arguably just as advanced (in its own way) as Comp. 70 which was unveiled the following year; and yet the thing is, audiences were always appreciative of the artistry involved: it was only the critical fraternity which couldn't hack it.

It is worth just pointing out a few more of the video-exclusive highlights, so to speak: moments which one cannot hear and thus would never know about, were it not for this great video. Around 22.13, we see the sweat dripping off Holland, who has done his best to keep the pace and momentum of 23j alive, all on his own, during the preceding two and a half minutes (he largely succeeded in this). At 25.10, B. gives a small cue with his free right hand, picked up by the camera, but possibly missed by Wheeler - as when the theme re-enters a few seconds later, the two hornmen are briefly out of sync (for once). From around 34.23, while we all have the absolute privilege of watching and hearing the maestro bang out the 40(o) theme on contrabass clarinet, the camera editor makes sure we get a really good look at all aspects of this: the body posture, the fingering, the embouchure, the works. From 39.40 (and especially from 40.25) our viewpoint switches back and forth between B's left hand and Wheeler's right, as they negotiate the 23g theme. (At 38.57 in the same number, something - ostensibly a well-timed bash on a closed hi-hat from Altschul - tickles Holland enough that he breaks into a huge grin, even while he is concentrating on keeping his own time against the two-horn theme.) At 43.33, a judicious over-the-shoulder shot shows us the lovingly hand-written score which the leader is working from. Oh, and at 45.04 (and a couple of times shortly thereafter), Wheeler flashes his "passport photo": that high-pitched squeal with which he always announced his presence in those days, much observed during Braxtothon Phase Two. In the middle of his energetic solo, 

we get a look at the score Altschul is working from, as well - of course it looks completely different from B's, on this number; he is reading that over his right shoulder even while the rest of his body is playing the actual rhythm track. They always worked very hard, these guys... but then they always had fun doing it.

***

For the record, just to summarise the differences:

1. 0.26 - 2.45 as on the album, track one (opening fades in, unknown duration missing)

2. 2.45 - 9.24 missing from the album, edited out

3. 9.24 - 26.13 as on the album, conclusion of track one (applause edited in)

4. 26.13 - 29.40 missing from the album, edited out

5. 29.40 - 36.43 as on the album, track two

6. 36.43 - 48.35 not included on the album in any format (technically, some of the applause is on there..!)

We could probably live without the closing credits, with their (now^^^) cringingly-problematic caricatures. But what ya gonna do, it was the seventies... On the plus side, a show like this, prepared for broadcast in the first place! (Would never have happened, on this side of the English channel...)

* The sound is perfectly serviceable, but may not be that great if played through whatever device you are watching it on; I definitely recommend headphones to appreciate it properly (not that I really need to tell anybody that!).

** I don't own this album on vinyl - just as well, since we still haven't got a turntable sorted out yet in this house - and although I did try to score a copy of the CD last year, somebody beat me to it in the end. My old vinyl rip dates from the C#9 days; I don't think it was something which I actually made into a proper post, rather it was probably one of dozens of "extras" which readers of that site ripped and uploaded, then shared via links in the comments. (Ah... the Golden Age of Music Blogging! those were the days...)

*** Actually I do have some idea, since somebody left a comment before I did - "Alex from Germany" - without the same precise breakdown I've given, but with more detail regarding the duration of the concert. Evidently there was more missing from the start of the broadcast than the record itself lets on, and an encore was played (Comp. 40m) - which is available in a separate video, where it was misidentified (as 23e) by the poster; presumably, then, some people do have access to the complete concert recording. I mean, it was always obvious that what is on the record is not the whole of what was played, and the same goes for the Berlin portion(s) of the album - but after all this time, I finally know exactly how much is missing... and would love to get my hands on an intact audio recording.

# It made me think in particular of this show, which itself really brings home both the advantages of the modern phone, and the inescapable limitations of having a complex event recorded from a single point of view. 

## The first track on the album is a medley, comprising 40n & 23j: this occupies the whole of side one of the original double LP, and depending on where you look, it is listed either as track one, or as tracks one and two. In functional terms it is easier to consider it as all one track, since there is no break between the pieces; indeed, although we can precisely pinpoint the beginning of 23j as being when the whole band starts playing its theme, the music has been moving in that direction for a little while already, with the leader in particular sketching out elements from it as we lead up to it; this, again, was an approach I encountered repeatedly while the original Braxtothon was in progress. So, following the pattern established later in "post-Martinelli" tracklists, it really makes more sense to render this as one track, entitled Comp. 40n/Comp. 23j, than to attempt to split it in two as Restructures did. [As for the use of the term "medley", this is how the marketplace insists on labelling such composites, but I detest the term in the context of B's music. It conjures up images - at least it does for me - of some seaside entertainer bashing out crowd-pleasing series of popular themes all jumbled together, and doesn't feel like the sort of word we would want to use when discussing serious art. Maybe it's just me, but...]

### Naturally, a lot more detail is furnished by the Composition Notes, which liken the piece to an Indian raga and highlight the work's nature as a platform for extended improvisation. Only composed a few months before this show, it was later "performed all over the United States and Western Europe". It is structured in nine sections, many of which are clearly glossed over in the (first) released version ( - a later reading turns up on Quartet (Coventry) 1985); by a really peculiar twist of fate, it is the third piece in a row which I have looked up in the Notes, only to find a gap where the dedicatee's name should be - I am starting to wonder if these are not somehow being erased from my copies of the books just before I go looking..!

^ "Alex from Germany", in the comment mentioned in footnote three above, claims that we are missing two minutes and twenty-five (or twenty-six) seconds from the beginning of the set, though no source is cited for this information. It is however quite possible that the first entries we hear on the Arista recording are not the actual opening of the piece. 

^^ The Notes tell us that 40n was indeed debuted by this version of the band, but B. doesn't mean this performance; indeed, we now have an earlier reading of the same piece, courtesy of official bootleg BL014, performed by the same group plus Richard Teitelbaum on synth, and I can feel another comparison coming on (although perhaps not quite yet). I don't have details on the earliest performance of it by the quartet, as such.

^^^ Actually, this kind of stuff was always problematic; only, not enough people realised it yet...

State of involvement: Comp. 70

 

The last time I undertook something like this, the Composition Notes proved invaluable in helping me to understand the structure and essence of the piece before I wrote about it. So, naturally, when I turned my attention to (the work now known as) Comp. 70, I went back to the same source - as well as to the very good notes by Bill Shoemaker for Four Compositions (Washington, D.C.) 1998, the album on which 70 was first - eventually - released. Having only recently noticed that the 1976 Newport Jazz Festival performance had itself been released - in digital form, thirty-five years after the event - I then decided that I simply had to get hold of this recording, especially once I discovered that it had never been in general circulation among collectors. As soon as I did get hold of it, I started thinking about some sort of comparative analysis of the two versions: the original '76 quintet and the '98 septet which (as I say) was actually the first official recording of the piece, despite its having taken place more than two decades later.

Last month, then, I found that studying the composer's notes for Comp. 92 enabled me to understand the structure of that piece - as interpreted by an external group, in this case - much more clearly, and to follow its eventual course with such precision that it was pretty simple in the end to pinpoint where each section begins, down to the last second. Spoiler alert: that is not the case at all with Comp. 70. Luckily, with material that is this much longer in duration, it also turned out not to be necessary (or at least to be arguably undesirable).

The confusing aspects of this latter piece began before Composition Notes Book C had even been opened, as I struggled to reconcile the very basic description in the catalogue of works ("eight pages of composition with improvisation for 1 wind, 1 brass, piano, pass, percussion") with the reality of a forty-minute* suite of music. Eight pages, not eighty? - and yet I already knew from Shoemaker's 1998 notes** that the piece is divided into no fewer than sixteen sections... 

... most of which, I soon discovered, are subdivided into smaller parts. A typical description from Book C: "Section A consists of fourteen phrase grouping constructions that are further divided into three groups of inter-component statements (cells) (each of which is activated by separate time point cues)." [It was obvious to me pretty early on in my reading that I was unlikely to be able to follow the progress of this piece as easily as I had done in my previous analysis...] A further layer of confusion is added by the way in which the digital files for the '76 recording have been presented: there is an (uncredited***) introduction lasting less than one minute, then the music itself is broken up into eight unequal parts, labelled "(Sections) A-H". This pretty clearly implies that the music is to be considered as divided into eight parts, although that does not reflect the composer's intentions; possibly, whoever prepared the material for release in 2011 (or at whatever point before then) was aware of the description "eight pages..." as detailed above, and knew no more than that; possibly, they listened to the complete performance and just decided on eight fairly obvious places to index the recording. In any case, there is no direct correlation between the files as presented, and the actual structure of the piece - nor must any be inferred.

- And speaking of inferences... but no, I will come back to that later, at the end of the post ("that" being the whole question of what the 1976 recording is, how it came about, and where it was hiding for all those years... all valid questions, which I found myself asking as soon as I discovered that it never made it into general circulation).

***

The aim here, then, will be to undertake some sort of direct comparison between the two versions, noting any major stylistic divergence, as well as seeking audible evidence of the extent to which the sounds heard are traceable to the actual eight-page score (and I still have trouble believing that the score only comprises eight pages, even allowing for the extensive pockets of improvisation-space which must surely have been encoded into the model). First - notwithstanding the limitations noted above - it's worth referring back to the composer's own notes to see what can be gleaned from them regarding the essential nature of the piece.

By a freakish coincidence (whatever that means#), this is the second time in a row I've had recourse to the official notes for a piece where the dedicatee's name is missing from the published text: just as with Comp. 92, the notes for Comp. 70 - which comprise pp. 553-72 of Composition Notes Book C## - leave a gap following the words "The work is dedicated to" ... which implies that parts of the notes were left unfinished, details to be added prior to publication, and that some details understandably got overlooked. It is not at all normal for the dedication details to be omitted, though: most of the pieces in these books clearly state the names of the dedicatees. In this case, Bill Shoemaker's later notes fill in the missing name as Bill Dixon, and we'll have to take his word for that (even if I have a nagging feeling that some other piece in the canon has also been dedicated to Mr Dixon... we'll let that go). It makes sense: 70 is very far from being a work built around a tune or melody, concerned instead with the organisation of sound, drawing on various strategies by which musicians can be induced to respond to each other. This is a serious and ambitious piece of modern composition, not a "jazz number", and Bill Dixon's is a useful name to invoke in that respect. (How well such an undertaking fit into the confines of a Jazz Festival... is something else I will address later on.)

The wider remit of the work is set out thus, in the notes: "Section A opens the music as a vast sound space environment that is unique and unfeeling. When the music begins to happen we are allowed to enter a world of slow and changing unison statements that give insight into the purpose of time and thought."### (Maybe just pause a minute right there, to take all that in.) In more accessible terms, it is explained that the work "is not a head structure or single dialogue sound forum that emphasizes only one principal intention and/or attitude^ - rather Composition No. 70 is an expansive terrain of structured moments that unfolds into many different personalities and motives." (These "structured moments" are what I will be noting below, among other things.) All the main sections of the work contain their own notated material; but the piece was written "without any preconceived overstructure dictates - in the traditional sense of pre-set harmonic and/or rhythmic systems".

Besides the above, what I really took from the notes can be condensed down to two main conclusions. First, there is a major emphasis on musical elements being introduced early on, then recontextualised - Shoemaker also uses the term "repositioned", borrowed from B's own notes - later: recontextualised, not simply repeated. The most obvious example of this is the use of trills - the trill being itself one of B's key language types (although I am not sure if that term was in use by 1976) - which are present at the very beginning then recur throughout the piece in different sonic contexts, usually played on piano (at least in the original performance)^^. Second, one of the principal characteristics of the work is the way in which it forces the musicians to consider very carefully their own roles and interactions with the rest of the group (or "sound forum", as B. would have it), fostering a "state of involvement" even while "participation... necessitates that each individual be responsible for his or her own statement". The effort of interpreting this last point might reasonably lead one to conclude that it is a fundamental truth about all musics born from or adjacent to "jazz", and indeed (very possibly) of all musics generally; nevertheless, this focus on underlining the role of the individual within the group, and on asking each player to make a careful study of it, feels very Braxtonian somehow, especially in the light of the way B's influence has been - continues to be - felt by the musicians who have studied with him, played with him, or simply been influenced and inspired by him.

***

To recap the two performances: the premiere, from 1976, was written for quintet and featured the working group with Lewis, Holland and Altschul augmented by frequent collaborator Muhal Richard Abrams. This gives us three key AACM figures onstage at once, together with the bassist and drummer who could (at that stage) have been expected to have the best understanding of B's music, and the system of thought which underpins it. The later version was rearranged somewhat for septet, with two extra reeds: the brass, bass and drums are played by THB, Jonathan Zorn and Kevin Norton, whilst the keyboard role is filled by accordionist Pete Cafarella; James Fei adds more saxes and clarinets, and David Novak bassoon and contrabassoon. Norton was already the regular first-choice percussionist, having made his first appearance in (I think) 1994; Bynum and Fei, both of whom would become critically important to B's music in the years and decades to come, were still relatively new to it and were, I believe, playing in the same group for the first time^^^. (The other names will be less familiar to most readers, although Zorn and Novak did play with B. on other occasions; I'm not sure I have come across Cafarella anywhere else.) Adding more reed players, both of whom double or triple on their instruments, was a natural development: B. may have written the piece originally for quintet, but he repeatedly expresses the desire in his notes for the horn players to use as wide a variety of instruments as possible. Augmenting the group with extra players was the simplest way of moving towards that.

Shoemaker describes the '76 Newport Jazz Festival as a "politically charged occasion", declining to elaborate (as if it would be obvious to all readers why this was the case~); B., he says, used this to present a work which "consolidated strategies pursued in his recent quartet music, demonstrated the diversity of innovations in creative music during the 1960s and 1970s, and empowered the performers to shape the performance". This seems to be a pretty fair summary.

The two recordings were made under completely different circumstances and, naturally, they also sound completely different. The 1998 septet was - like the other three pieces on that album - recorded at the Coolidge Auditorium of the Library of Congress, and although it says in the notes that this was "live", I take that to mean that the band played all together and was recorded that way, not that the recording was made in front of an actual audience (since there is no evidence of the latter) - in any case the recording is very much of professional quality, and it sounds to all intents and purposes as if it was recorded in the studio. The 1976 quintet sounds as if it was captured onstage on a tape recorder, probably a decent enough one by the standards of the time, although there is a little tape deterioration near the start and not all players are equally audible at all times. The main difference, besides the obvious gulf in audio fidelity, is in the ambience: the '76 tape gives a full impression not just of the relative positions of the players onstage, but of the space between them, the size of the auditorium, the air in the room, and (most crucially) the energy and buzz surrounding the performance. The '98 recording does not lack fizz or excitement at all; indeed, given that the band tear through the score considerably faster than their counterparts did twenty-two years earlier, the later version is generally denser and more intense than their earlier one. However, there is an ineffable crackle to the earlier recording which is not present in the later one, very probably just the product of the performance being given in front of a (very appreciative) live audience. 

I would find it extraordinarily difficult to describe the music played in either version, and if I attempted it, I don't think it would help the reader much. (Anyone interested is, in any case, directed towards the actual recordings.) Nonetheless, the '76 reading in particular more than once had me thinking of words sung by Robert Plant in "Kashmir": not a word I've heard could I relate... (but the) story was quite clear. Listening to this recording did feel overwhelmingly like being immersed in an exotic, utterly absorbing narrative, coherent and whole (notwithstanding its avowedly multipartite nature) - it's just that afterwards I was quite unable to articulate what I had heard. This doesn't really seem to matter very much, if at all: it's a really powerful and convincing performance, and a salutory reminder (to me!) that however much the working quartet would start to feel lopsided by year's end, at this point in the music's development, all players were equally capable of grappling with brand new, challenging and demanding music, and doing so with complete success. Nobody sounds anything less than fully focussed in this remarkable recording. If I didn't experience the same "storytelling" quality in the '98 reading, on this last occasion, that is at least partly because by that stage I was primarily listening out for familiar landmarks, trying to match these up with those in the earlier version. It's still the case that my response to the WDC album has always been extremely positive, any time I have just played it and listened to it (as opposed to making notes on it). 

As one would expect from readings involving passages of improvisation, the two recordings are far from identical - and they could hardly be that, given that almost fifteen minutes is lopped off the running time in the later rendition. But there are many points of contact, and it's quite clearly the same score which is being used (even if I still don't understand how that score is supposed to comprise a mere eight pages!). The beginning, in both cases, is pretty much exactly the same: high trills over cymbal washes, the only difference being that the very beginning of the '98 version consists of two dramatic chords, leading directly to the opening passage as noted (these chords not present in '76, when the music sort of begins as if it has always been playing, just maybe not previously audible). In the quintet, the trills are played on piano only; in the septet, they are voiced on accordion and small brass. In both cases, what happens next is the same: a slow, ominous theme in very low voicings is eked out, building a considerable degree of tension with the trills and cymbals which continue underneath; the effect is not dissimilar to certain other pieces we have already heard, such as the opening section of Comp. 23e. (In the quintet, these very low voices are trombone, arco bass and - of course - contrabass clarinet, which must have excited a few audience members right there.) To quote again from the Composition Notes, "the basic feeling that is communicated here is... 'expectation!' (and then 'having to wait')." Within a couple of minutes, the tension is allowed to dissolve gradually instead of exploding, and the long journey is properly underway. 

I have no more intention of walking the reader through the piece minute-by-minute than I do of attempting to write about the music descriptively; from the third minute, in the case of the quintet, and halfway through the second minute of the septet, the theme subsides and details naturally enough begin to diverge. All I really plan to do from this point is map out the points of convergence, regular as they are. We are kept waiting a little while for the next of these as, following the opening, the '76 version becomes rather spacious and contemplative in tone - in keeping with B's note about the audience "having to wait", the early tension not at once being released - whilst the '98 septet is much more busy and dense, a crowded (not cluttered) soundscape reminding me almost of a barnyard; at 1.10 in file B ('76) a slight pause precedes a declarative written phrase, culminating in a unison trill, very reminiscent of Comp. 69j's opening theme. (The trill, remember, is the most salient example of a motif to be deployed and redeployed - repositioned - at points throughout.) This same phrase is repeated with slight variations, and the exact same passage appears in the '98 reading at 5.55; my best guess is that in both cases we have reached the beginning of Section E in the score. (But... don't quote me on that.) Meanwhile the C file for '76 begins with a similar (but trill-free) written phrase which does not seem to have a direct counterpart in the '98 version. In between the "signposts", the two versions explore the improvised sections entirely differently, as one (again) would expect.

The next marker occurs around 10.00 in '98, and around three minutes into the D file in '76, where a furiously-intense passage has subsided into brief silence, out of which emerge long, sustained notes interspered with short, staccato written phrases which are precisely mirrored in the later version. (By now though I had completely given up on trying to locate these events within the section-map representing the infrastructure of the score~~.) The next few minutes from '76 (files E into F) are some of the most vibrant and captivating in the entire performance, but their main events - an intense Abrams piano solo, some outrageous contrabass sax (following which, some much-needed cathartic applause provides a safety valve for the audience) and a dramatic unaccompanied drum solo - are presumably not written out in the score in any way, since they have no direct matches in '98. But the passage immediately following the '76 drum solo - from roughly 1.32 in file F - is exactly reproduced from around 11.40 in the '98 reading, and to emphasise the match, in both cases we are very quickly back with those trills, repositioned in fresh contexts again. Out of this, at 3.38 (F) in '76 and 12.17 in '98, the same plucked bass figure plunges the music forwards. In the septet, this is followed by quite a lot more unison written material which seems to have been skipped out in the quintet, and in fact the later version appears to loop back on itself in due course, with the passage from around 15.55 sounding almost (though not quite) identical to one we have already heard, further trillage leading up to a reprise (16.31) of the plucked bass figure we encountered four minutes previously. I couldn't begin to tell you which parts of the territory are being traversed by our '98 explorers, but it's all fascinating stuff.

In both versions, there follows a furiously-intense passage with some white-hot (but tightly-controlled) sax playing from the maestro (which lasts longer in the later reading), and in both versions this is brought to a close with a series of group staccato attacks on a single note: around 20.05 in '98, 5.35 (F) in '76. In both versions this is immediately followed by a much more reflective passage, again featuring long, sustained unison notes over busy cymbals. The two recordings quickly diverge again into improvisation after this, though, and next come back into alignment around 1.05 (G) and 21.13, both of which feature written lines where bass, clarinet and brass are the strongest voices; the contemplative next passage is again a match in both versions. (Bynum's extended display of "laughing" attacks with the mute, however, are an innovation unique to the later recording, and highly effective they are too.) 23.50 in '98 has the same written figure, leading to another sustained tone, that we hear from around 5.57 (G) in '76, though the passages leading up to this point have been very different (much more intense in the quintet, this time). And from here on out, the two readings move very differently towards their endings, with the quintet going spacious-free-playful then building to a brief, tumultuous climax - Abrams pulverising the bottom octave of the piano before lapsing away into tinkling fragments in the top end - in a way that the later version never attempts to replicate. Instead, the last few minutes of the later reading provide a marvellous sequence of bent, creaking, detail-rich attacks and techniques from all players, dwindling quietly away into two last sustained notes, THB's cornet fidgeting away into silence at the very end. But even in the last minute or so, there are fleeting reminders that we are hearing two readings of the same piece. 

The quintet's close is marked simply with a "thank you" from B., greeted with the kind of rapturous and unfettered applause which some might have you believe was simply not a possibility for this kind of music at that time. The audience gives the impression of having been held spellbound throughout, and if some of them came expecting to hear a "jazz concert", free or otherwise, they do not seem to have been disappointed by the actual performance in the slightest. And yet, in 1977, B. was interviewed by Steve Lake~~~, and remembered of the Carnegie Hall concert that "everybody was really surprised by what we did... George Coleman was playing be-bop, Ted Curson... too; so I decided, well, I could do that but I might as well do something completely different. And then I read this review by Ira Gitler which says "Well, Braxton has proved that he can't swing." The critics just missed the point. Everybody is locked by very limited definitions of what creative music should be." If by "everybody" B. means the critical establishment, he would know, and I'm sure he was right - nor did it end there, as conservatives like Wynton Marsalis would later attempt to write all this "other stuff" out of history altogether. But there were people who got it, whatever "it" might be, and we can hear that at the end of this vital recording. Of course, those people were listening with open ears, trusting the musicians to play something worth hearing. Gitler, who will have been there on some magazine editor's time and money, can be assumed to have spent the whole performance with one eyebrow cocked high enough to give him a headache for a week, and apparently blamed the latter on the music (to which he doubtless stopped paying attention within a few minutes anyway, already writing his damning "review" in his head). Fuck that noise: this was the sound of something new, and there were always some people who recognised that.

***

Finally: I did say I would come back to the question of what this recording might be, and how it got here, and why it disappeared for all those years... the Wolfgang's website lists the files as copyright Bill Graham Archives and affiliates. B's notes, on the other hand, end by stating "the work has yet to be documented on record". That single word "yet" does just about allow for the possibility of an agreement, at the time of performance, for a recording to be made with a view to eventual release - at some point. Coincidentally, Bill Graham's Fillmore Records ceased operation in 1976; perhaps there was an original intention to publish which just evaporated, along with the label. It does sound as if the recording was made onstage, or very close to it, and it seems we would have to conclude that it was made with some sort of official permission. In any case, by 1998, Graham himself had been dead for a number of years (killed in a helicopter crash; even if I won the lottery, you would never get me in one of those things) and B. had clearly decided that the only way the piece would ever get recorded was if he did it himself. Who knows what the status of the '76 tape was, by that late stage..? Graham's estate must have owned it, along with hundreds or thousands of other unreleased recordings, and B. would presumably have been in no position to wangle it back, even if he remembered it by then. (- And one would think he would have done; but then, did he even know..? hmmm.)

It's not professional quality, and for full effect, I definitely recommend listening through headphones (in the dark would be even better). Important document though it is, it seems to me a real cheek that after all these years of sitting on it, anyone would expect to be paid for it - instead of simply sending it on its way with a blessing. Had it been made available (much) earlier, it would have found greater recognition and been valued by collectors worldwide, I'm sure. As it is, finally stealth-released thirty-five years after the fact, only a few fanatics like me will even really be aware of it, and this seems a crying shame. I know it's not exactly "for sale" - the site has got thousands of live concerts in its archives, and they want people to sign up for monthly access to them, this being just one of the many delights one could uncover in the process - but I can't encourage anyone to part with money for this. Let's hope it gradually seeps out into the blogosphere, where it naturally belongs...

* The 1976 version lasts just over forty minutes; the 1998 version clocks in at 27.39. (Even so - eight pages?!)

** These are presumably the original liner notes from BH009, which I don't (yet) have in physical form; but in any case they are now easily available on the album's Bandcamp page.

*** That is, the archival entry on the Restructures discography lists only the eight musical files. For reasons partly explained in the main post, I'm not thoroughly persuaded of the claim to exclusivity implied by the site where these files were eventually made available for sale, and I have deliberately not linked back to it here; but anyone who wants to find the recordings in their "official home" can find the url in my earlier post. (Strictly speaking, the eight music files are simply labelled "A", "B", "C" etc on the other site, and the precise way of naming them on Restructures would seem to have been an innovation of Jason G. Then again, given that the original url is dead and that the location for the concert has moved within that other site, it may be that they files were labelled rather more fully when they were first "released" in 2011.)

# The prevalent viewpoint among western intellectuals these days attaches no significance to coincidence at all, but many other cultures have had a different line on the subject. Personally, I always take note of it.

## Copyright 1988 by Synthesis Music. Published - as always - by Frog Peak of Lebanon, New Hampshire. (First printing.)

### Of course, the fact that the composer himself conceived the work in these terms - and was thus able to delineate the events of the music within that (much) wider context - does not mean that listeners would experience it in the same way. It can be presumed that the performance was not preceded by a lecture on the nature of the work to be performed; even if one had been delivered, how many present would have understood it? (Whether or not this really matters - and to what extent the composer-philosopher might say that the nature of the work communicates itself, regardless of the audience's conscious comprehension of that - is a whole separate question, not to be examined here.)

^ In other words, a direct contrast is being drawn between Comp. 70 and the seventeen component parts of the 69 series. 

^^ Shoemaker regards this as the aspect of the composition most clearly forward-facing, "whereas much of (70) recapitulated earlier investigations": for him, "repositioning foreshadows the advent of pulse track structures in the quartet music of the 1980s and early 1990s", but I'm not at all sure that I agree with him there. (Pulse tracks are more about rhythmic displacement, or counterpoint; in that regard they are more relevant to 92 than they are to 70... and besides, the foundations for them had already been laid in the mid-'70s, with Comp. 23g.) 

^^^ As far as I can tell, THB made his debut as part of the "Wesleyan Creative Orchestra" which performed (the musical components of) Comp. 102 - this took place in March 1996. (The young brass player was credited on that occasion as just Taylor Bynum.) Fei first shows up the following year, as one of six saxophone players in the "Yoshi's ninetet" which enjoyed a four-night residency in Oakland. They both played on Comp. 46 as well as on 70, on May 1st 1998 in WDC; Fei was also one of nine saxophonists heard on Comp. 223. I can't find any earlier performances where they were both present (but of course, this does not necessarily mean that there weren't any). 

~ At the time of this performance, I was two weeks shy of my sixth birthday, and living in Birmingham, England: I am certainly in no great position to comment on why this occasion was "politically charged", and would have valued some explanation. (The only mention I can remember my parents making of global politics around this time concerned Idi Amin's activities in Uganda; as for the climate in the U.S., the Vietnam War was over - although the fallout from it arguably never would be - and the only major event I can find from that year was Carter unexpectedly beating Ford in the presidential election. If anyone cares to fill in the blanks here, I am all ears.)

~~ Any attempt to pick out likely-looking signposts in the notes is thwarted by the latter's reference to very precise prior locations, e.g. Section J repositions material "from grouping B5". But since I couldn't tell you where B5 can be found in either recording, well, you get the idea. Even a nutcase like me has to draw the line somewhere.

~~~ This took place on May 28 in Evan Parker's garden, at Twickenham: the year is not given, but we are told that it was the penultimate day of Company Week, and B. refers to the Newport event as having been "last year". It is (of course) presented as an appendix to Book C, pp. 615-643.

- commercial break -

 

While I'm in the process of preparing another proper post, there have just been a couple of things brought to my attention:

1. The 4-cd box set Four Compositions (Wesleyan) 2013, credited jointly to Anthony Braxton / Roland Dahinden / Hildegard Kleeb and released on Prague Music Platform last year - maybe? supposedly - has never yet shown up in any of the usual online retailers outside of eastern Europe (or even in any unusual ones, as far as I can tell, although sundry Czech websites have continued to list it as if it were readily available). I have been keeping an eye out for its wider distribution ever since last October, if not somewhat before; but it's beginning to look as if it may have a different release date in this part of the world: several sites now list it as available for pre-order, coming out on 5th April. (For example, there is this one; I can't vouch for the seller, and indeed their quoted price seems ruinously expensive, especially for something which (ostensibly) has already been on sale for around half that price, or less, allowing for the currency conversion.) I will believe it when I see it, at this point; but I'm very likely to buy it if it does eventually show up at a reasonable price. PMP, meanwhile, have more pressing concerns, pun not intended: as previously reported, they have been trying to raise money for a more ambitious box set (although the campaign is now said to have ended almost a month ago, and they only achieved 20% of their target; how much money did they think they would raise in a fairly short time?). Nothing else to report on any of this, just yet...

2. McC tells me that two more dates with Wolf Eyes have been arranged - one of which has been rescheduled from January - so I suppose it's official, and this is a long-lasting partnership... it struck me as rather overdoing it to say (as the Ars Nova Workshop page does) that "the collaboration ... has lasted now for nearly two decades", since the association has been far more off than on, but still: allowing for the fact that I have probably missed some repeat encounters along the way, this is indeed the twentieth year since that famous first (onstage) meeting. Evidently, all concerned find something of value in these groupings, which is very encouraging to know; even better, we can infer from these announcements that there have been no long-lasting concerns over the maestro's health and fitness. The first of these shows is due to take place in Greenwich Village, NYC on April 18th, and the following night they will play in Philadelphia. Indeed that second show is already sold out, despite tickets being rather pricey ($40 for a standing show?!) - that in itself is heartening to know. The Ars Nova page doesn't exaggerate at all in describing B. as "one of the most important musicians, educators, and creative thinkers of the past 50 years" and notes in conclusion that he "has created a unique musical system that celebrates the concept of global creativity and our shared humanity". Damn straight! 

STOP PRESS... "this just in", and neither significant enough to put it elsewhere, nor so utterly trivial that I didn't want to mention it at all: Discogs is still listing the spurious Elegy For a Goose album, credited supposedly to "Charlie Mariano Meets Anthony Braxton". I discussed this in some detail last year, so I'm not going into all that again now, but suffice it to say: at time of writing, its collector stats read Have = 0, Want = 53, Ratings = 0, Never sold. No, of course it's never been sold, because it doesn't exist, any more than the Mariano Studios record label exists. The 53 very optimistic would-be buyers out there are probably the kind of people who used to send on those emails back in the day that read "If you forward this to everyone in your address book, Microsoft will pay you for testing their software" (... designed to overload corporate email servers). As for Discogs, they presumably can't take the listing down until they get some sort of concrete proof that it's not real, although how one goes about proving that something is completely fictitious... anyway. "It's cool to be fooled"... what I (still) don't get is why someone bothered doing this in the first place, unless maybe it was for a bet..?

Stairway to ... ?

Eight Compositions (Quintet) 2001 (CIMP)

 

This was an entry I had often wondered about, coming across it in the discography: unlike its similarly-named predecessor from the previous year, it is not a collection of modern standards, but rather a set of original pieces - featuring opus numbers one is unlikely to encounter elsewhere... and there is that highly unusual line-up: two reeds, three African(-style) percussionists. Not exactly what one would think of when hearing the term "quintet", however technically accurate that might be...

Copies of the CD are not especially commonplace, and it was never - as far as I know - something readily available in the blogosphere. I had it on one of my vague "one day" lists for years, but it was only last year that I really made any serious attempt to do something about that; as it happened, it was then one of the very first items to get crossed off the same list, when one of the blog's longtime readers and friends hit me up with a rip. Only the audio files were included, so I had no access to the liner notes and had to draw my own conclusions about the music.

At first I was preoccupied by trying to work out what I was hearing. Some of the pieces were clearly identifiable as (some form of) GTM, but others were less definite - and even the ones which I was sure about did not sound like GTM, third species as such. We know - I knew already, from years back - that Comp. 292 was very much in that category; and the numbering on the CIMP album picks up immediately after that, containing Comps. 293-300 inclusive, though not in that order, and with two different takes of the last piece. Yet we also know that opus numbers in the low 3xx range were not necessarily allocated to continuations of the GTM project: it is not difficult to locate several examples which demonstrate that. 

In the event, those next few months saw me acquire so many new recordings that I had no real opportunity to listen over and over again to any one of them in particular, and after a couple of intrigued plays of the CIMP album, I pushed it to the back of my mind somewhere and moved on. So it wasn't until the end of January, when I was surprised to see a physical copy listed for sale here in the UK, that I came back to it. Once I had the actual album in my hands, with its detailed liners, I had an answer to my question: it was not what I expected, at all. 

The Artist's Notes - as distinct from the Producer's and Recording Engineer's Notes - begin by stating that the "compositions which comprise this CD demonstrate the first of the fourth species prototype Ghost Trance Musics", an intriguing assertion, since in hindsight we know that there is no GTM, fourth species. I had never come across any reference to this prototype anywhere else, in all the time I have been exploring B's music; we know now that the third species generated its own offshoot, the accelerator class, and that the final parts of this massive system - culminating in Comp. 362 - were of that precise subset. But nowhere else will one find reference to a "fourth species" GTM: apparently this prototype led no further, was discontinued. In the huge fantasy theme park which is Braxtonland, there is a pathway seldom taken, tucked away behind all the main attractions, and it leads to an ornate (but dusty) gate, behind which is a spiral staircase leading... to nowhere at all, as it turns out. Here, in other words, is a rare example of an idea not followed through, a false start, a leftover from a time when the pioneer headed off in a new direction, only to have second thoughts and turn back. That alone makes this release a fascinating anomaly, unique in the recorded canon.

The album is obscure enough that most people won't have access to it, and until such time as I am in a position to share the files, there is little to no point in writing in any detail about the actual music; nevertheless, this seems a good time to make some observations about B's (fairly brief) involvement with CIMP, and some more generic observations about that (somewhat controversial) label. 

What happens in The Spirit Room...

This was B's third session for CIMP, and for whatever reason(s), it would prove to be his last - a bit of a shame then that he was just starting to know the way there (according to the Producer's Notes), only overshooting the driveway "by about 100 feet" on this occasion. Previous sessions had yielded nineteen modern standards, mainly by Andrew Hill (released across two different albums) - and a bizarre set of duets with vocalist Alex Horwitz... but we don't really talk about that one. Still, those four duet compositions were all in the 28x range, and they were not GTM* - so we do know that not all high opus numbers were allocated to this continuing project (as it was then). This third and final session was the only one in Rossie, NY, which really produced cutting-edge original pieces, and it seems to have come about through an association between Sipho Robert Bellinger (one of the three African-style percussionists on this disc) and Richard McGhee III, the second reedman, who had worked with the maestro at least once before, a couple of years earlier. Bob Rusch may not have been quite correct in saying that B. "had never recorded in this type of instrumental setting before"**, but he also was not entirely wrong, given that the precise instrumentation used here is quite possibly unique, and must at the very least be extremely unusual.

B's own Artist's Notes include potted musical biographies of his collaborators - a habit he picked up somewhere along the line, and frequently indulged - but they focus chiefly on the music itself, making it clear once and for all that this was not just a practice-run for what later became the accelerator class, but something else, brought about by the one-off combination of musicians available for the date - and limited to that date. The composer explains that by the term fourth species GTM he is "referring to a set of structural prototypes that contain (1) re-centred pulse construction strategies and (2) the additional use of rhythmic compound cell modules". Crucial to this prototype is the idea of "combination rhythm sets", and more specifically of "four different compound rhythms", both of which relate quite definitely to the particular circumstances of this recording, rather than to anything else which was going on at the time. B. did not usually get to play with three different percussionists at once, never mind with those of an African-diaspora focus or lineage, and the possibilities inherent in this grouping are what led him to compose this set of eight pieces.

Now, as to whether this environment was the optimal place to try all this out... well, one problem we don't have to worry about here is the role of the bass, since there isn't one. CIMP is notorious for its own militantly-obstinate approach to recording aesthetics, insisting that their way of doing things - recording live to 2-track with all the musicians present in the same space, and resisting any temptation to mess around sonically with the results - is the only way to hear what was actually played; various loyal musicians have been quoted over the years as saying that Rusch père et fils are the only producer and engineer who have ever given them back exactly what they put out, free of artifice or ornamentation. Nevertheless, their recordings do have a tendency to sound... oddly lifeless (which itself is pretty ironic, given that the label's Statement of Purpose - present on the back cover of every CD, which itself can be a problem (as we will see in due course) - refers to the way that "compression of the dynamic range is what limits the 'air' and life of many recordings" - said compression being a complete no-no for the Rusch family, of course); and most infamously, the contrabass - when present - can end up being more or less inaudible. Yet anyone who has listened even slightly carefully to creative music for more than a very short time would surely agree that that instrument has a very powerful and versatile voice, in the hands of a good player. Somehow, in their quest to create recordings with no trickery or over-engineering or post-production, etc etc, these guys manage to produce albums which sound singularly sterile. Or at least that is how they very often sound to me; perhaps my noise floor is not low enough for their standards. Certainly, my equipment is not up to what they would doubtless regard as an adequate standard; but here's the paradox: I nonetheless manage to hear most other recordings in great detail...

... and here's the real clincher: on this recording, I struggle much of the time to recognise B's voice, even on alto, which is (frankly) almost incredible. Leave aside any doubts as to whether my ears are really as good as I might like to think they are - just the thousands of hours I have spent listening to that voice are sufficient for me to be able to pick it out of a crowded soundscape, within the first few seconds, even when everyone is playing a saxophone***. Yet when I listen to this album - it became especially noticeable when I actually got hold of it on CD - I find many places where I can't identify that voice in the same way, and this just feels really weird to me at this point. Of course, I can identify him easily enough anyway, by virtue of what he plays; I had no problem pinpointing him and McGhee in the stereo image. But it's still a most disconcerting experience to realise that I am listening to the most familiar instrumental voice in the world, to my ears, and that if I didn't already know in advance who it was, I might not be able to recognise it. Yes, yes: this is of course because only the Rusch family understand how to render that voice with true fidelity: if I don't hear what I'm expecting to hear, it's only because I have never before heard the true, unadulterated voice. But would they really have me believe that every other recording of this musician is false in precisely the same way? I would never accept that, so let's hope nobody tries to persuade me of it... No: the purity of the label's vision seemed to me so strong that for years I wouldn't allow myself to be overly influenced by the negative opinions of numerous other listeners, but I finally have to admit to myself that I don't really like the way their recordings sound. 

There are other issues, mainly concerning the packaging: I have no problem with the cover, or even with the fact that all the covers are painted by (daughter) Kara D. Rusch#; that's part of their house style and it gives the label a part of its identity. But their insistence on emblazoning the Statement of Pomposity Purpose on the back cover, regardless of whatever else might need to be displayed there, causes a major problem in this instance, at least: the graphic titles for the pieces are supposed to be in colour, at this point; and they are supposed to be reproduced large enough that the viewer can actually make them out. Instead, in this case, they are all black and white, and all so tiny that there is really no point in having them on there at all. That, at any rate, was not properly thought through; and while I'm at it, is it really necessary to credit Susan Rusch with hospitality, again right there on the back cover? In all seriousness, this risks giving the impression that the Rusch family ethic somehow outranks every other consideration here, including the music, and that really does feel like the crowning irony.

Was this, then, a case of "what happens in The Spirit Room, stays in The Spirit Room"..? Did B. decide after the fact that he wasn't bound by his declaration of intent with regard to "fourth species GTM", because it was only revealed on a CIMP album and many people would never find out about it? That seems an uncharitable conclusion, and is probably assuming rather too much. What does remain true, either way, is that he never recorded there again... make of that what you will.

This is still a very interesting recording, not least because it represents a time when B. started off in one direction then changed his mind - but not just because of that, either: it is worth the time to track it down, for anyone with a serious interest in the maestro's music. At some point, I will try and make the files available - and when I do, I will have something to say about the actual music itself. In the meantime, apparently there was quite enough to get out of the way beforehand...

(...

... and yes, I am well aware that my accusing anyone else of pomposity is a flagrant example of the pot calling the kettle black. What ya gonna do?)

* Or were they?! Besides the tiny sample-files which McClintic Sphere passed to me last year after I made that request, I have still heard almost none of this album... its reputation, as it transpires, rather precedes it... and yet, and yet, there was that recent concert revisiting the very same material: someone likes it, anyway. Presumably they could also confirm whether or not it has any connection to GTM, but I can't, at least for the time being...

** I wrote not long ago about B's concert with master percussionist Abraham K. Adzenyah, which comfortably predates the CIMP recording; of course, that was a duo performance only, and featured a continuous set of entirely improvised music, but it's still an encounter with a percussionist in the African tradition, and one must presume that Rusch Sr. was unaware of it.

*** I would have to hold my hand up and say that on another occasion when everyone was playing a saxophone, I also struggled to locate B's voice, and even expressed my consternation to McC about precisely that; but it was only on the first track, and only because B. plays bass sax on that piece - not the voice I was listening out for..! (The same is not true of the rest of that album, even when Andrew Voigt is also playing alto.)

# Even the fact that Robert (producer/father), Marc (engineer/son) and Kara (visual artist/daughter) all share the middle initial D. feels, frankly, a little creepy - and seems to be information ever so slightly overshared. (Does it stand for the same thing in each case? Is it one of those peculiar things that only Americans do, giving each other middle initials which don't stand for anything at all - on the pretext that this somehow lends the name extra gravitas..? I'm possibly better off not knowing.)

Two masterclasses

 

Two more videos coming up, one of which was already plugged in these pages, albeit somewhat in passing... these feature the two current "travelling experts" on B's music, so to speak - the two figures who seem to have been busiest lately in terms of teaching the maestro's music to eager musicians. One is a short documentary, the other a (longer) piece of concert footage, and both of them offer windows into the warped and wonderful world that is Braxtonland*. 

In truth, neither video needs very much commentary. The first, put together by or on behalf of Kobe Van Cauwenberghe, is a bite-sized and very digestible documentary showing the guitarist preparing his Ghost Trance Septet  for their performance at Philharmonie Luxembourg, as part of the Rainy Days Festival in November 2021; it is handily indexed into parts, five of which centre on specific compositions used as tertiary materials (6f, 40f, 40b, 58 & 34**) - other sections focus on the treatment of language music types or secondary materials, etc. It is both charmingly relaxed and indicative of how into the music all of the individual musicians are: all six of the band members (besides the leader, of course) are interviewed, albeit briefly, and their fascination with B's music - and its unique challenges and freedoms - is readily apparent. I wondered at first whether Van Cauwenberghe's addressing his group in English was purely something done for the camera's benefit  (although Belgium is a polyglot country, and this is not always a trouble-free issue***), but when we hear violinist Winnie Huang speak (around 7.15), she does so in more or less unaccented English - and possibly, therefore, does not speak either French or Flemish very fluently. (Coincidentally, she is also the one player who is no longer in the band: she was replaced by Anna Jalving for the group's superb double-CD.) The video explains very clearly what tertiary materials are, as well as secondary materials - although this is slightly more confusing, largely thanks to a misleading title for the segment beginning around 6.30# - and the impression given is that the leader's relaxed and confident approach facilitates the understanding for the players, as well as for any potential viewers.

Van Cauwenberghe, besides leading this highly-rated## group, is currently focusing on B's music in his PhD at the Antwerp Conservatory (according to his official bio), which helps to explain why his expertise has been so sought after in recent times. Our next masterclass is given by one of B's heirs apparent, whose credentials have already been established in these pages. 

Here, Roland Dahinden conducts (what appears to be) a thirty-one-piece orchestra through a thirty-two-minute performance entitled simply "Language types", at the Archa Theatre, Prague, in October 2021. This time, such commentary as might be needed - in terms of filling gaps in understanding which might easily arise from a close watch of the video - is unfortunately beyond me to supply. When the cameras pick up visible sheet music, it does indeed appear to contain nothing more than a list of the primary language types - long sounds, staccato attacks, trills, multiphonics and so on - together with the symbols used to denote these within B's scores; but the music we hear is not simply a series of exercises, rather it has its own continuity and internal structure, and although the conductor is showing the performers how and when to play, that does not explain how they know what to play. There is nothing random-sounding about this, suggesting that a schema must have been worked out in advance and then carefully rehearsed prior to the performance. This becomes most evident at times (for example from around the 17-minute mark) when different sections of the orchestra are producing different types of attack, but really it is apparent throughout, to a viewer who is paying attention. If all that had been decided beforehand was that the orchestra would be taken through a sequence of language music types, with no other limitations specified, the results would doubtless be very different from what we actually see and hear. Still, the closeness with which all eyes watch RD, and the rapidity with which the orchestra responds to him, leave us in no doubt that the assembled players have complete trust in the conductor to guide them through this piece. As someone with a background in martial arts and qigong, I was very impressed by Dahinden's excellent posture and whole-body movement, in which his limbs are perfectly aligned to a straight spine, resulting in clear and commanding gestures at all times. If I can't claim to make total sense of what happens in this video, I can at least say that it provides clear insight into Dahinden's skill and aplomb as a conductor - and it ought to prove helpful, when I finally get to the point of attempting a breakdown of Ensemble Montaigne (Bau 4) 2013. 

In the meantime, the obvious place to seek direct comparisons is the opening track of Creative Orchestra (Köln) 1978...  

The maestro was present for both of these events, by the way: in Luxembourg, the septet's set was one half of a double bill with a performance by B. himself###, and the previous month's Prague concert had him there in some capacity too. In both cases he looks delighted by the interpretations of his work (in Prague he appears to have been almost overwhelmed). Like I say: two masterclasses...

* This reference will make sense to anyone who watches the first video - though you do have to keep watching till the very end!

** 34 is listed in the video as 34a, a persistent anomaly - the origins of which predate the guitarist's birth: listed on the 1981 Antilles album as Comp. 34, this has very often been cited as 34a - including the only other time it was officially recorded, as part of (the live portion of) Willisau (Quartet) 1991 (the half of that '92 box which has yet to be reissued in remastered form). Yet there has never been any mention of a "Comp. 34b" or the like... the roots of the confusion go back to the Composition Notes, where Book C in fact begins with the notes for 34a, described passim with that precise title, but with no real explanation given. The catalogue of works, on the other hand, lists 34 - as the first of "Three Compositions (1974)"... despite the fact that, according to the actual notes, 34(a) was composed in Canada in 1975. Small wonder, then, that nobody has ever been quite sure how to refer to this marvellous piece. (Given the number of times it is named as 34a in the notes, I am inclined to go with that - even if it doesn't really make sense..!)

*** My information on this subject is admittedly a couple of decades out of date, but Mrs C. and I found Belgium a frustrating country to drive around, as different areas would display road signs in one language only - so that in some cases one could be heading for a town or city only to find that one has changed from a Walloon district to a Flemish one, or vice versa, and the name of one's destination is now completely unrecognisable. Historically, the different areas had a problematic relation to each other (and I have seen for myself how French-speakers in Flemish Belgium might be totally ignored by the locals, who would answer questions in English but would refuse to acknowledge French at all). However, I have also met several Belgians who were perfectly fluent in both - as well as In English - and in a situation where people come together to cooperate, I'm sure there wouldn't be any such problem...

# Actually, this segment is a little confusing all round. The title for it - both onscreen and in the indexation for the video - probably should be "Composition 358 (secondary material)", where the wording "Tertiary material" is probably left in there by mistake, carried over from the previous segments. But although Comp. 358 is another of the works which this group did play - on the album, for instance - the video as a whole is supposedly all about a rehearsal and performance of Comp. 255 only. That in itself is probably a mistake on the part of whoever edited the video for release, since not all of the five tertiary materials relate to the group's arrangement of 255; and besides, even to call 255 itself "second species GTM" is not strictly accurate as it is really a Syntactical GTM piece... of course, with no vocalists present, there would be little point in emphasising that. - As usual, I am compelled to point out all these little details, but the main thing is just to enjoy the video and not to worry too much about the particulars...

## The septet's CD - which I still haven't got round to writing about, yet! - has been much lauded: several reviewers considered it to be one of the best recordings of 2022. (Without giving much away here, I also consider it to be about as good as any reading of B's work would need to be, or as any listener might wish it to be.)

### At least, there are references online to this having been the case, though I've not yet been able to verify it: the TCF events page actually has a conspicuous 2021-sized hole in it, so who knows what really happened in Luxembourg. We do know, of course, that B. was present, as we can see for ourselves that he took his applause at the end of the septet's set...