Alvin Batiste, "Marsalis Music Honors Series" (2007)

NICK DERISO: People think of clarinets as this sound from a different era, and the guys who play them as having done so in black and white.

The late Alvin Batiste, who initially found his muse in Charlie Parker's "Now's the Time," was never that way. His isn't a same-ole, same-ole southland sound so much as a retro-fitted bebop update, with period instruments. Later, he dove into Sonny Stitt -- and Batiste told me, a few years back, that he never emerged.

Stitt's playing, he said that day, allowed Batiste to recognize his own "intuitive consciousness."

That Batiste did it in New Orleans, his home but also the birthplace of Dixieland's anachronistic tourist-trap deathlessness, was all the more remarkable.

Batiste -- not a household name, but deeply admired among musicians -- lived as he died, passing on even as he prepared for a show at this year's Jazz Fest, but not before recording one last blast of definitive music as part of the Marsalis Music Honors Series on Rounder Records.

Batiste could speak with passion about how rag eventually fit together with blues in the Big Easy to make modern jazz, but he never agreed to stop there. Not in conversation, and not in his music.

New Orleans, Batiste said then, is the model for global civilization -- with jazz at its center -- and his albums, rare as they were, stand as a living embodiment of that aesthetic.

Loose, but never comfortable, Batiste played with a firebrand focus until the end. At one point, during the playback of the superlative track "Bumps" (his grandson's nickname) from this album, Batiste was brought to tears by the moment.

"Music, man," he said, as his eyes filled. "Music."

You might not have heard this music from him, unless you studied the liner notes of guys like Julian "Cannonball" Adderly (a new version of "Salty Dogs," from that period, is included) paid close attention on Ray Charles tours or knew where to find him in New Orleans.

Yet, along the way, Batiste also broke some ground in Billy Cobham's fusion band, broke the color barrier in the New Orleans Philharmonic, established a first-of-its-kind jazz studies program (at Baton Rouge's HBCU, Southern), helped found the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, and toured in the 1980s with the innovative Clarinet Summit, which also included Jimmy Hamilton, among others.

The appearance on three tracks here of saxophonist Branford Marsalis as well as Marsalis family sidemen Russell Malone (guitar) and Herlin Riley (drummer), contribute mightily to the hometown vibe. (Marsalis and Riley were, along with Donald Harrison and Henry Butler, former students.)

And there are times when you can relax with convention: Malone strikes the appropriately staid pose on a standard like "Skylark," which still sounds as lively today as it must have the day that Hoagy Carmichael wrote it.

But, by and large, this is not a record that spends too much time looking over its shoulder. Batiste wasn't, even at the last, that way.

It's why Batiste remains that most special of things: The old-school modernist.

One Track Mind: David Torn, "Structural Functions Of Prezens" (2007)

by Pico

Since new David Torn releases don't come around that often--the last one came out in 1998--Christmas arrived last month to lovers of electric improvised music, such as myself. Mark Seleski's review of Prezens whetted my appetite further as he described the album's music as "the combination of ambient approach and seemingly unstructured music." Other musicians pay lip service to thinking outside the box; Torn is not even anywhere near that damned box.

The sounds he coaxes out of his guitar aim for something deeper than just acumen; at times he's drilling into the frontal lobes while at other times, he's dwelling in your subconscious. Torn once named an album Tripping Over God; this one could have easily been titled "Fripping" Over God.

The personnel lineup is a treat for Tim Berne fans (again, such as myself), as it includes Berne on sax along with Craig Taborn on keys and Tom Rainey on drums; in whack jazz shorthand, that's Hard Cell plus Torn. It's the exact right crew to have on board when experimental music is on the menu.

The semi-title track "Structural Functions Of Prezens" is a perfect example of what Mark is talking about; the first four plus minutes features Tim Berne playing his tenor sax soft and straight over Craig Taborn's (taking a big s.w.a.g., here) heart pulse sound and Torn's occasional acoustic guitar. But suddenly in the middle of this dream sequence soundtrack Tom Rainey comes crashing in a frenetic cymbal 'n' snare explosion.

The rest of the band doesn't wake up right away, but Berne eventually does briefly play more in his character as an outside player. After about three minutes, Rainey slows down and ambient take on more urgency while staying "ambient."

Somewhere in all this, Torn is providing samples as well as odd sounds out of his guitar, but he's far more interested in glueing the whole thing together than playing the frontman. Like a mad scientist. A mad genius scientist.

Listen: David Torn "Structural Functions Of Prezens"

Purchase: David Torn Prezens


"One Track Mind" is a more-or-less weekly drool over a single song selected on a whim and a short thesis on why you should be drooling over it, too.

Joel Frahm, We Used To Dance (2007)

by Pico

Sometimes a record doesn't smack you across the head on the first listen but at some point...maybe that 3rd or 4th listen...it hits you: "Damn! This is some well made, well played music!" That's how it was with me for Joel Frahm's new release, We Used To Dance.

Frahm isn't a guy who isn't writing a new chapter in the long, storied history of jazz, nor does he seem to set out to do that. But mainline, middle of the road post bop jazz is a always a sublime experience to listen to when it's executed as well as it is as it is here.

Frahm is part of a newer generation of tenorists to come out of the Big Apple that's currently ruling the jazz scene there, like Chris Potter, although he doesn't seem to enjoy the recognition out of the NYC area that Potter does. We Used To Dance may very well change that.

Frahm's rich, relaxed sax style falls somewhere between Joe Lovano's and Wayne Shorter's, which is a very nice style to have. Other times you can make out classic-era Rollins and occasionally some of his solo flights recalls the late, great Michael Brecker. But Frahm absorbs all these influences into his own warm, polished style.

It's not blatant, but there's also a little Stan Getz somewhere in there, as well. The Getz connection is strengthened by the fact that Frahm's rhythm section for this session was one of Getz's last great ones: Kenny Barron (piano), Rufus Reid (bass) and Victor Lewis (drums).

Barron, a brilliant pianist who could elevate anyone's record, was one of Frahm's teachers at Rutgers University. From him he most likely learned how to swing so effortlessly and smoothly through chord changes, as Barron can do like no other.

Reid and Lewis are similarly long time top-tiered players on jazz scene. But with all this juice backing up Frahm, all are the consummate professionals: keeping the leader up front and looking good and not threatening to overtake him. Make no mistake, it's Frahm's show all the way.

We Used To Dance doesn't go for an overall theme; Frahm mixes tempo, styles (within bop) and originals with covers. He's used this occasion to showcase his own composing pen up against more established ones and more than holds his own. And he does it by using a good amount of both breadth and depth.

Start with the simple blues dedicated to his father that leads off the CD. "Bob's Blues" shows both the leader and his top-drawer band handling the fundamentals with all the self-assurance that can from woodshedding at Rutgers and the bars of New York City. There's no over-the-top grandstanding or pointy-head pretension; just guys playing twelve bars with sincerity.

In contrast, "A Whole New You" pays tribute to the bebop of Parker, while "The Dreamer" sports shifting time metres and some nice flowing lines from Barron. The title song is a melancholy ballad where Frahm makes every note counts. On “Jobimiola,” a 5/8 melody is cleverly overlayed on a 4/4 bossa nova beat.

But "Nad Noord" is Frahm's most ambitious composition and one that most displays his potential as a jazz composer. Arguably the centerpiece track, it consists of several, tempo-varying sections, highlighted by some particularly passionate but controlled playing by Frahm and a succinct, sharp drum solo by Lewis.

There are other people's songs in this collection, too. A couple of Barron's better efforts are performed here, like the mildly bossa nova "Joanne Julia", a tune that was previously performed by the Great Getz. “Song for Abdullah”, Barron's tribute to fellow pianist Abdullah Ibrahim, is given a beautifully soulful rendering by Frahm.

And then there are "traditional" covers, like "My Ideal", which is played in a straightforward, romantic fashion. Another ballad "Spring Can Really Hang You Up The Most," makes you appreciate how sweet a tenor can sound.

Most promising young jazz musicians reach a point where that promise is fulfilled with an album that is mature, confident and complete. For me, Lovano's From The Soul comes to mind among the more recent examples. Likewise, We Used To Dance is one of those records. By shining while hanging with the big boys, Joel Frahm has proven he belongs in their company.


Purchase: Joel Frahm We Used To Dance

Sonny Landreth, "Outward Bound" (1992)

NICK DERISO: Guitar sideman projects can fall prey to several breeds of debut carnivores -- virtuosity to the point of pedantry, a mysterious lack of lyrical depth, that unexplainable one-off looseness.

Lafayette's brilliant slideman Sonny Landreth played off all those pratfalls by delivering this terrific CD. "Outward Bound" sounds like something that needed to be made.

Lyrically, Landreth doesn't stray far, but still hits home with lines about the Pontchartrain, cheres, parishes, bayous and the Napoleonic Code. He's well-known around those parts, and often returns for local shows -- including showcases in his hometown's signature cultural event, Festival International.

More striking is a sturdy three-man core band (former boss John Haitt sits in on two songs, including the galloping "Common-Law Love"). That frees Landreth up to do the fancy fretwork on electric and acoustic bottleneck, lead, rhythm AND dobro.

A high point is "Yokamona," the instrumental at the center of this record. It has all the acuity of Haitt's contemporary Little Village project -- except Landreth never lets his behind hit a stool. It's fun, yet doesn't lazily lose focus.

In that way, "Outward Bound" stays away from becoming the perhaps-expected slide-guitar showcase. For example, Steve Conn -- who played Hammond B-3, piano and accordian -- is allowed to make subtle, but important contributions.

That restraint highlights Landreth's lanky, clear-eyed playing all the more.

DaSlobInterview: Backstage with blues legend B.B. King

Nick's note: B.B. King has invited Al Green and Etta James to share a stage for the first time during this summer's B.B. King Blues Festival tour. The slate includes 16 U.S. cities, beginning July 24 in Hollywood, Fla., and wrapping Sept. 9 in Murphys, Calif. I visited backstage with this living blues legend, who will turn 82 before this latest series of announced concert dates is completed:

NICK DERISO: B.B. King, inside the bright circle of television light, asks someone to bring him a soda.

The stage crew, meanwhile, is hurriedly disassembling the stage out in the arena.

King takes a sip and looks at the label: "We're not getting paid for his," he says, and puts the can out of sight.

He has been signing an endless stream of albums, pictures and scraps of paper, first just off stage and then in his dressing room. King's been interviewed, photographed and given the key to the city.

The concert has been over for hours, forever. But B.B. King is just getting started.

"What we want you to say, Mr. King," the TV person instructs, "is: 'Hello, I'm B.B. King. Lucille (his legendary guitar) and I would like to encourage every one of you to join the fight against crime in this parish.'"

King considers it for a moment, after saying "O.K." Then he looks some more at a piece of paper with notes about what he's supposed to say.

There are a group of people lining the walls of his dressing room -- friends, bodyguards, attendants, and another in the never-ending line of families waiting for their sliver of time with King.

"May I say, 'Hello, I'm B.B. King. Lucille and I would like to encourage you to join in the fight against crime,' like that? I want to make it for everybody," he says.

The TV person says: "Well, sure, Mr. King. It doesn't have to be like that. It can be universal."

King looks over the paper again, whispering.

"If you just let me look at it a couple of times, I think I can get it in my head," he says, helpfully.

After another moment, King says: "I think I've got it," but asks for another soda break.

He's just finished performing for more than 1,900 people, another in a lifetime's tapestry of nights spent weaving stories of love-gone-bad and love-gone-for-good, all with his patented butterfly-wrist guitar twang.

King has thrown off his coat, and wiped his brow. It is well past midnight on a Sunday morning, approaching now 1 a.m. But he doesn't seem weary.

"Hello, I'm B.B. King. Lucille and I would like each and every one of you to join in the fight against crime," he says, then waves off the take with a quick hand gesture.

"O.K., let's try it once more, just to make sure we've got it," the cameraman says.

There is a quiet moment.

Then, in a louder voice, King says: "Hello, I'm B.B. King. Lucille and I, we'd like to join --"

He stops, and smiles with open joy.

"We'll do another; we'll do another," the TV person says.

King takes a deep breath: "Are we ready? Alright," he says, cheerfully. "O.K., Hello. I'm B.B. King. Lucille and I would like to encourage each and every one of you to join in and help the fight against crime."

The take is finally done. They cut the camera off, and start spooling up cords and taking down the lights.

"Now, I'm a star. Get the wheelbarrow!" King booms, gesturing around the room. "Get the wheelbarrow, 'cause my head's going to expand! I got to get it out of here!"

Everyone laughs.

But no one leaves.

Another woman comes up with another notebook to be signed.

"I have a friend who wants me to get your autograph," she says. "Because she is in love with you."

King's smile grows wider.

"In love with me, huh?"

Sitting next to King now, the TV person says: "You have more women in love with you."

King is writing "Best Wishes" in the notebook, then. "But none of them," he says, wryly, "want to marry me. Lucille, she just stay with me 'cause I pay her."

Somebody else in the dressing room says: "Do you imagine it's because a woman can't keep up with you?"

"Well," King says, "I've been married more than once. That may have something to do with it."

Again, everyone laughs. Again, though, nobody moves.

The pause this time is longer than the last. King finally says: "Well, thank y'all."

But somebody gets him going again, talking about being given the key to the city.

King sits back, taking it all in: "When he handed me the key, I wanted to ask him ... 'if I run a red light ...," he says, looking around the room with another huge grin. "Would it help get me out?"

Then, King is up and ready to leave. But he never does.

"Alright, thank you all," he says, then starts right back in.

"A couple of days ago, it was Monday," King says. "I was in San Jose, Calif. I needed to see my dentist, so I told my secretary to get me a car, which he generally do.

"And if I'm running late like I was at that time, we have to call all the agencies in town that rent cars kind of in a hurry," King says. "Well, I call this lady up, and the lady say: 'I'm sorry, but do you have a reservation?' You can't get a car without a reservation."

King is sitting again, though still at the edge of a couch that was hastily dragged into the dressing room for the show.

"Then she said: 'But, can you give me an autograph?'" King exclaims, then glances around, incredulously. "So, I didn't say anything. I just looked at her, kind of like this."

King makes the same face he makes when he roars that nobody loves him but his mother -- and she may be jivin', too.

"She says: 'I'm sorry, but I ain't got no car.'"

Out by the door, the backstage manager is asking photographers if they need any more shots, and writers if they have gotten everything they need. The people around B.B. King look tired, and ready to go.

He doesn't. Not by a country mile.

"She said: 'But, I'm going to try to help ya,'" King continued. "And she did. I got me a car, from some car company I never heard of before."

King shakes his head at the memory, laughing softly.

"O.K., thank you," he says, after being prodded to leave again.

One of the members of this entourage says: "Thank you all."

What might have been the last group files out of King's quarters, only to stumble into another smattering of fans and friends still waiting in the hall.

Several children traveling on tour with King are walking up and down the arena halls, patiently biding their time under flourescent lights that make their church clothes glow.

One of them, a boy wearing crooked glasses, finally asks: "Is he done yet?"

The man guarding B.B. King's door says: "Almost, son. In a little while."