ModalJazz.com Editor’s Blog

For many living south of the Watford gap, Glasgow is akin to Helmand Province - where stabbings, heart disease and sectarianism are enjoyable past times. Indeed, cockney crime lord Reggie Kray once quipped, “I’ve seen more violence in Glasgow in one weekend than in a month in London”. In reality, Glasgow is now an affable cosmopolitan city that has, for the last few decades, been dragging itself out of a PR quagmire. Yet, despite this new urbane persona, few visitors would equate Glasgow with a sophisticated jazz scene. Indeed, you would be more inclined to visit Edinburgh - its cultured nemesis - to hear some Thelonious Monk. But if you peel away the pseudo-veneer of deep fried mars bars and Buckfast, you will uncover a sub culture of jazz flourishing in this beautiful city.

If you’re ever in Glasgae for a long weekend, saunter down to the following venues to see the best live jazz on offer:

78
If Richard Briers and Felicity Kendal from “The Good Life” ever opened a bar, it would be a replica of the 78. Specialising in vegan cuisine and organic ales, this is a new age tavern where tie-dyes munch on spicy falafel and sip cloudy cider. Every Sunday afternoon this chic commune is home to some of the best young jazz artists in Scotland – Tom Gibbs (Piano), Euan Burton (bass) and Stuart Brown (drums).

Heavily influenced by jazz modernists’ Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter, the trio blaze wildly over the post bop canon - fusing Rhodes piano with an acoustic double bass and drums. Their sound is fresh and exciting, but tastefully demure in its delivery. You’ll find 78 on Kelvinhaugh street, half-way between Glasgow city centre and the West End, in an ethnic hub choked with new world restaurants.

Oran Mor
Oran Mor is situated in the bohemian West End of Glasgow. Formerly a derelict bethel, it was refurbished into an entertainment complex in 2004, and now showcases plays, live music and Scottish cuisine. In the brasserie you will find the Michael Dean’s Quintet, cloaked in the tapestries and stained glass windows of yesteryear. Deans is a patriarch of the West End jazz scene; previously enjoying a lengthy residency at Cottiers bar in Hyndland, and a stint at Ronnie Scotts in London.

The saxophonist loves the baby boomer jazz of the 1950s/60s, and his band blast out seminal tracks from this era - such as John Coltrane’s “Blue Train” and McCoy Tyner’s “Passion Dance”. Deans is somewhat of a Miles Davis style mentor; his line-up a revolving door of University jazz students, or musicians in the fledging stages of their career. This youthful vim energises the quintet, propelling it above other supine ensembles.

So next time you’re in the West End mosey on down to Oran Mor for Sunday brunch, and watch Mickey Deans prowl the stage, arch his back, puffing his cheeks into sacks of lava.

Brel
Saturday afternoons in Glasgow revolve around soccer, with thousands of Glaswegians pouring through the city, every weekend, to see their beloved Celtic or Rangers. For those not so enamoured with the beautiful game, there is a musical life raft located in Brel bar, which hosts a free jazz matinee every Saturday. Brel is a Belgian beer café, and boasts a mammoth collection of bottled beers, and Benelux style cuisine. It is nestled in Ashton lane; a charming vista which has become a mecca for bars and restaurants in Glasgow’s West End.

At the rear of Brel in an austere conservatory, you will find jazz musicians huddled together on a tiny stage. They’re typically local combos playing a mix of post-war jazz; entertaining Brel’s patrons - a bevy of chic souses, students and 30-somethings.

If you fancy a bite to eat then get the mussels - they’re delicious.

Corinthian
It’s the witching hour, yours eyes are glazed, and you should really toddle home. But, swaying at the taxi rank, the muted ivories drift through the night air, luring you back to the optics and beer pumps. Next stop the Corinthian.

Located on the fringes of George Square, the Corinthian is in the heart of Glasgow’s city centre. Formerly the Union bank of Scotland, it is a majestic A-listed building that has been exquisitely refurbished. To hear some jazz head for the piano lounge: a cosy oasis littered with leather armchairs, oil paintings and velvet drapes. Every night, after 11pm, the house pianist plays a consoling mix of jazz standards and contemporary covers. So ease back into a Chesterfield sofa, sip a single malt and wallow in the charm of “’Round Midnight” - a perfect end to the evening.

Is a troubled soul a prerequisite of artistic greatness? Romantics would argue yes; preaching that those blessed with talent must endure personal suffering for their art. History corroborates this view, describing a culture littered with prodigious martyrs: van Gogh, Charlie Parker, Slyvia Plath, Nick Drake. Bill Evans is, sadly, one of these cadavers - a gifted pianist whose life was curtailed by inner demons and drug addiction.

Nowadays, celebrities flaunt their indiscretions to millions on CNN and YouTube. Evans’ affair with the white lady unravelled quietly in dressing rooms and anonymous motels. Heroin, cocaine and alcohol – the holy trinity of addiction – were his downfall. It was a furtive and prolonged tragedy, which concluded in a New York hospital ward in 1980. He was only 51.

Evans’ physical transformation, over the years, is a parable of substance abuse. In the 50s, he was a svelte mandarin: brylcreamed hair, librarian glasses and a clean-shaven face. By the 70s he was hirsute and jaundice; sporting swollen fingers, aviator sunglasses and a shabby sport’s jacket (he resembled a professor teaching English Lit. at UCLA). In 1980, his face was a morose epitaph; bearing all the profligacy of Dorian Gray. By 1981 he was gone.

Although his appearance altered dramatically with age, his public demeanour was consistently forlorn. Melancholy, it seems, befriended him in the cradle. During the few interviews he granted, Evans spoke with a quiet authority on matters of jazz and music, but his tone was sombre and demure; he appeared slightly withdrawn and emotionally numb. Yet despite this latent sadness, he had a stoic work ethic, and unlike Monk, his emotional maladies never affected his ability to perform in the studio or at a gig. 

When discussing Evans’ career with friends, the conversation inevitably gravitates towards two fundamental questions:

If Evans was drug-free, gleeful and attended coffee mornings every Sunday, would his playing be as emotive?
I doubt it. When Herbie plays a plaintive ballad, it’s beautiful, but in a tranquil Monet flowers kind of way. After all, Herbie’s a jolly Buddhist at peace with himself and Mother Nature. When Evans’ plays a tear-jerker, every note aches and mourns, it resonates with our soul.

Why did Evans need a pharmaceutical crutch to get through the day?
We can adopt the role of Dr Phil and speculate that an alcoholic father, fragile disposition and gloomy nature portended his demise. I personally believe his felicity was pilfered by the death of Scott La Faro (the virtuoso bass player in Evans’ first trio, who died in a car crash at the age of 25). Following that incident, Evans stumbled from one trio to another, desperately trying to recreate the magic of the Village Vanguard sessions with La Faro. He initially found musical perfection; then it was cruelly snatched from his grasp.

Whatever precipitated his decline, let’s be thankful for his musical legacy: “Waltz for Debby”, “Re: Person I knew” and “Very Early” are all beautiful standards. He played the piano with a minimalist sensibility that transcended jazz. Miles Davis remarked on his playing:

“Bill had this quiet fire that I loved on piano. The way he approached it, the sound he got, was like crystal notes or sparkling water cascading down from some clear waterfall.”

Remember, the dark prince didn’t bestow many compliments.

Ultimately, Evans’ melancholy was a malignant muse: it inspired haunting beauty in his music, and self-destruction in his private life. A precarious balancing act that eventually see-sawed out of control. The superstitious amongst us might call it a Faustian pact; I like to think of it as talent bestowed from above, and Evans as a troubled soul, who like many other jazz luminaries, succumbed to the dark charms of the white lady. Bill Evans, Rest In Peace.

It was a dreary November afternoon in Edinburgh. The apricot sun was low in the sky and cast a thin shadow of light onto the stanks and fag buts in Rose Street. A gaggle of Geordie hags, dressed as bedpan nurses, were marauding through the boozers - cackling and stabbing at sobriety with their white stilettos heels. Prigs and puritans gaped in awe at their debauched matinee, but we wallowed in youth’s flickering flame - a tawdry supernova that floodlit the grey suits shuffling by.

Admittedly, our meek protest against the 9-5 drudgery was not exactly Woodstock; but taking an afternoon off work to go drinking before a gig was a profoundly shallow and enjoyable loaf. Especially when Herbie Hancock was the draw; a rare visit by the maestro to our wind swept shores. Many think that getting soused before a jazz concert is uncouth, and that we should have been nibbling arancini in a cosy Italian restaurant. But we were rock fans who had been converted to jazz by the electricity of Bitches Brew and Head Hunters. Our pre-theatre was a slab of Tennent’s lager.

Cerebral cortex merrily stewed, the stage lights dim; transforming the Usher Hall into an opaque hum of polite expectation. A plaintive African chant swells in the darkness…a punchy drum loop kicks in…Herbie splashes some colour onto an austere canvas. It’s a demure fanfare that weaves and bobs, crashes and burns, before fizzling back into an ambient whisper. Musically, the set is an interesting collage of ambient, jazz and African influences. Sometimes it gels into a mellifluous wave, at other junctures it sounds clumsy and not so cogent. But this is expected, as Hancock has made some swashbuckling musical choices over the years. Some of them prescient, others flawed - for every “Rockit” there has been a “Lite me Up”.

A few songs in and Herbie greets the crowd in a soft, hushed voice: “Emm, great to be back, emm, in Edinburgh, err…beautiful place…lovely castle…you guy’s still haven’t found Nessy yet…ha, ha…emm…” He grabs a plastic bottle from atop his piano and squirts some water onto the stage, before sharing an in-joke with his band. Hmm. His chat is a shamble of awkward pleasantries and cryptic mumbles; he adopts the air of a bashful eccentric. Personality aside, his majestic music is always focused and captivating, a counterpoint to his inter-song rambles.

Than again Herbie is a Buddhist. Perhaps his Nichiren aphorisms body swerved my pickled brain. Maybe next time I should substitute Tennents with skinny lattes. In any case, Herbie Hancock has the right to be capricious and recondite; he is a musical genius, with a 40-year career in his wake - he has played with Miles, played for President Obama and played with our conception of what jazz is and can be.

Herbie Hancock is 70 next year, an old man. But his inexorable march into new musical territories keeps jazz youthful and alive. Like Miles Davis, he doesn’t give a sh*t what critics and peers think of his musical detours. Remember when contemporaries suggested that Sketches of Spain was something other than jazz. Davis replied “It’s music, and I like it”. Wise words indeed.

“You know, anybody can play a composition and use far-out chords and make it sound wrong. It’s making it sound right that’s not easy”
Thelonious Monk

A spinning cap, a mumble, some more noises – Monk is in Monk’s world, turning round and round and round, his feet glued to the stage, his head in the clouds. Time drifts and he returns to his muse, thumping out whole tone scales and dissonant chords – luring us into his world of abstraction and distortion; where everything is skewed, bent, stretched and squashed - the Salvador Dali of Jazz.

Every Jazz fan should watch Clint Eastwood’s documentary, on Monk, Straight No Chaser: a lovingly assembled mix of concert footage and behind the scenes titillation. The fly on the wall material is fascinating; providing an insight into Monk’s private life, recording sessions and psyche. It does little to dispel the image of Monk as an eccentric enigma, who is perturbed by mental illness. Indeed, his strange and beautiful music is undoubtedly the residue of a fragile disposition.

At one recording session Charlie Rouse (saxophone) attempts to decipher the chords on Monk’s chart of “Boo Boo’s Birthday”. Monk, withdrawn to the point of catatonia, grunts one-syllable replies to the saxophonist’s enquiries. Rouse, wise to his employer’s eccentricities, cajoles and teases the information out of his serpentine mind. It’s a revealing exchange that highlights Thelonious’ reputation as a kooky savant who could be difficult to work with.

During the last six years of Monk’s life he never played the piano; sinking into a reclusive mire of ill health and solitude. He slipped away in 1982, and we can only speculate on the dreams and regrets that swirled through his mind in those moribund years. Yet Monk’s life has the air of an elaborate ruse – maybe he’s up there grinning at having duped us all; wearing his cap, mumbling and spinning round on a white fluffy cloud. Just maybe…

It was the most intense and anticipated drum battle of all time. Man pitted against beast. In 1978, a jazz legend wearing an ill-fitting toupee took on a 3ft, pink fluffy puppet: Buddy Rich v Animal.

The Muppet Show has never seen anything so surreal.

In retrospect, it’s hard to decide who looks the most ridiculous: In one corner sits a hunchback midget with a head too large for his infant frame. His face is smeared with toffee coloured foundation, and boasts a cavernous mouth fringed with huge rubbery lips. A powdery rug crowns his horsey phizog, his upper body is teensy, and the overall picture is of a man whose anatomy has been assembled from disparate, disproportionate parts. Buddy Rich looks silly.

His adversary, meanwhile, is a screaming bundle of pink fluff - the puppet world’s ode to John Belushi. Bushy eyebrows squiggle over his ping-pong ball eyes, and a bulbous foam nose sits aloft a gaping mouth crammed with jaggy fangs. This Animal means business.
 
A gruelling 2 minutes and 26 seconds of rim shots, flams, paradiddles and grunting ensues. Rich, arms flailing and wheezing like a pensioner on a treadmill, emerges triumphant. Animal is disconsolate and trudges back stage to do an 8 ball with Miss Piggy.

The most hilarious moment of this percussive rumpus arrives at 2.08, when we are treated to a Sergio Leone close-up of an exhausted Animal; panting and staring in awe at the trails of light streaking from Rich’s flailing arms. It’s his Oscar moment - where the hyperactive marionette transcends into the Laurence Olivier of soft toys.

Enjoy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erE8WTngaAY
 

Kevin Eubanks is known to millions as the chilled out, jovial bandleader on The Jay Leno Show, and previously from 1992-2009 on The Tonight Show. For the last 17 years he has been entertaining television audiences with his virtuoso guitar playing and easy going banter. 

Kevin Eubanks is all Californian cool - a laid back and amiable dude who has the carefree persona of a Venice beach surf bum. His voice is a soothing laconic drawl that massages your eardrums, his manner gentle; enriched with a warm smile that mellows over his soft face. He exudes an infectious chuckle that cajoles you into laughing. You can’t help but like the guy.  

Indeed, his personality is refreshing in an industry savaged by egomaniacs. But as a self-confessed British sceptic I pondered - Is this Eubanks character too good to be true?  I dredged the Internet, gouging for any scandal on the beatnik string plucker. I unearthed a disturbing, dark, distressing, diabolical secret……….. Kevin Eubanks is a Jazz musician (and just for you Texan good ole boys he’s also a vegetarian). 

During his youth Eubanks studied jazz guitar at Berklee College of music in Boston. He went on to play with jazz luminaries such as Art Blakely, Roy Haynes and Dave Holland, and has recorded 18 jazz albums as a bandleader. Currently, away from The Jay Leno Show, he leads his own jazz quintet that features Bill Pierce on saxophone and Marvin Smith on drums. I was perplexed. I can only recall his Tonight Show band performing a handful of jazz, or even jazz influenced, songs. But as he revealed, in an interview with The Wall Street Journal, it’s all about being professional:

Did you get to play enough jazz on “The Tonight Show”?

No, but at the same time I never expected to. I play music that supports the focus of the show. I never had a conflict of interest between what the show needed and what I wanted to do.

But he feels there could be an opportunity to incorporate jazz into the new Jay Leno Show:

You’ll be leading the band on “The Jay Leno Show.” Will you find a place for jazz on it?

When we start the new show, I’d like to bring that into focus. I want to find the right places for the creative expression. I don’t want to force it. I feel everybody has an open mind now that it’s a new show. They’re open to some new ideas.

Many struggling jazz artists are envious of Eubank’s career: His lucrative TV work provides him with publicity and financial stability, while his jazz projects satisfy his creative yearnings. No wonder he’s so chilled out and happy. Or maybe he is the long lost brother of “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski…

He slapped and banged the piano with the over zealous verve of a demented chimpanzee. A few minutes later he was tearing down the auditorium stairs whipping the crowd into frenzy. He stormed back onto the stage, bounding on top of his Steinway before flying through the air, legs spinning, arms flailing, head twisting – like an out of control sky diver. Welcome to a Jamie Cullum concert. This is jazz, but not as you know it. 

My friend arrived at the venue late in a foul mood: arms folded, legs crossed, face fizzing, she sulked in her chair with the words “ENTERTAIN ME!!!” emblazoned across her face. She had been working overtime and was stressed out of her mind (her boss was an office tyrant, who expected his staff to sacrifice their social life to the Gods of Commerce). I went for the culinary G-Spot and bought her the biggest tub of Haagen-Dazs I could afford from the foyer. It seemed to do the trick, and she briefly stopped moaning as the endorphins rushed around her body. But the over priced ice cream was no magic elixir, and the storm clouds gathered above her head minutes later. 

2 hours later she was unrecognisable, and had been transformed into a dancing, clapping, smiling, bundle of fun. This is what scientists call the Jamie Cullum effect. In fact, everyone was on their feet, even the fish oiled octogenarians who thought they were coming to see a young Bing Crosby. “I didn’t think I really liked jazz, but this is great,” said my friend as she swatted an imaginary cymbal with her hand. “This is cross-over jazz,” I replied. She shrugged her shoulders and continued to thump on an invisible set of drums. She was right, who cares what it’s called - good music is good music.  

The fact that Cullum is the UK’s best selling jazz artist of all time is no fluke. His fusion of jazz with contemporary styles, and his jazz tinged covers of modern classics has allowed him to reach a large demographic. Some of his jazz peers deride his music; but I believe they are jealous of his lucrative rise to fame (Cullum signed a £1m contract to record 3 albums with Universal).  For others musical purists jazz is sacred; with ancient rules decreeing how it should be played, presented and appreciated. To them, he is Jazz’s Vanessa-Mae. To me he is the lifeblood of modern jazz in the UK, as he has surreptitiously turned young people onto it. Without them onboard, the venues will get smaller, the audiences will dwindle and the music will become literally extinct. Good luck Jamie, I look forward to hearing your new album in the fall.

“Jazz is like Latin - a dead language,” quipped my friend. “Jazz isn’t dead, but its audience might be,” I replied. We propped up the bar, sinking a few bourbons and enjoying a friendly altercation after work. The verbal sparring continued for another few rounds, until the barman clanged his bell, we agreed to a truce and I wobbled on home. To this day, I maintain I won on points: because for me, Jazz is an esoteric past time - the musical equivalent of Croquet. Its fans are loyal and passionate, but like an outlandish cult they worship in small, subterranean venues after dark. A lot of musicians still play jazz, but not many people are listening to it. 

Popular music still incorporates Jazz, albeit in a diluted form. Just as Latin permeates contemporary English, jazz colours the sound of modern pop music: Jazz trumpeter Quincy Jones produced Thriller, the biggest selling album of all time. Radiohead dabble with avant-garde jazz in ballads like “The Pyramid Song”. International crooners Robbie Williams and Rod Stewart have recorded swing albums. The list goes on.

Nowadays however, in the mainstream, Jazz survives by influence alone So where do we go from here? Will popular culture ever embrace “pure” jazz in its bosom again? I can’t see it. Contemporary music is a fusion of different styles, one of which is Jazz. Miles Davis recognised this, and blended modern influences such as hip-hop with his trademark horn sound. Critics accused him of selling out and pandering to the masses. But how do you get new people turned onto jazz if it’s confined to specialist radio stations where no one can hear it? Artistic compromise, or as I like to call it evolution, is necessary to re-ignite the general publics interest. Jazz isn’t dead, but it is an endangered species.