Baby Machine; BugGirl: Oxford Tavern, 18 May, 2008

[Technically. not jazz]
"Don't want to beat my wife!" as I walk into the local rock tavern, so I'm glad I wore my strap-on minge.
I stopped listening to Shostakovich to get to this gig, so I might frame it in the same terms my day has been.


Octatonic Scale Study: No.0
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An intriguing affair, this work establishes its Messiaenic credentials early, adroitly switching bass notes across the lower range of the octatonic scale. A more comprehensive study would be required were the bass, guitar and lead guitar players not playing exclusively in octaves with each other.

Octatonic Scale Study: No.1
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(Gueest-blog Ma'at) Being a relatively non-musical soul, and liking the Rock as I do, but not necessarily the Messiaenic kind, I don't know that I can continue the octatonic theme. But I am pretty sure that the jolly bald man with glasses at the table behind, who reminds me of my childhood doctor, is playing table-top tabla to the beat. And doing so very well, I might add.

Octatonic [I don't know who taught these folk the blues scale] Study No.2
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All credit to them: BugGirl do understand the blues scale. They even drop the flat 5 and flat 2, so they get kudos for reducing the (necessarily) 8-note octatonic scale into 6 notes. It may be something in the water down here but accessing this hyper-simplicity is surely a skill. If there is any cat-call I hear too often, it's "make it simpler, and make it simpler now. I work for the dole and even Adele Horin will tell you [the government] dropped all the artistic jobs I was really good at."

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P.S. Apparently, I'm required to take in the entire picture the musicians here put forth. To me, it appears that an average rock gig pulls a bigger crowd in this city than an average jazz gig would, by at least an order of magnitude. In fact, of any venue in this city I'd be able to find live music some derivative of rock will be 'that' live music. It is abundantly clear that there is a strata of the working class that enjoy sophisticated motor skills without any accompanying intellect. This seems enough for them, as they don't question the imbecility of themselves or the audience for enjoying music that any self-respecting orchestra of the mid-late 19th century could play. If that orchestra had no musical integrity, of course.

W.A.N.K. - April 1, 2008, WUNI, Creative Arts Faculty

I wasn't going to blog this but I just photographed a Professor of Music (who is also a turd) playing a plastic saxophone and holding a clarinet between his legs. Picture to come.
So that is the actual acronym. I've also taken a recording of some more of this show. It is difficult to blog, actually, as the frames of reference are incredibly difficult to find... But here's a photo of the final 'jam' session. Or 'collaborative, intermusical discourse', for DEST points. I'll leave you with the solemn observation that the guy in the huge beard is getting awesome sounds out of a rubber chicken.




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W******** Anarchist Noise Kollective

The Nice Folk - March 9 2008, Heritage Hotel, Bulli.

[Not a strictly jazz blog]

My high-school music teacher often said that popular music was 100 harmonic years behind avante-garde art music. To my reckoning, rock'n'roll has about 4 years. I'm watching 'The Nice Folk' and they are waiting to start; apparently an audience of a mother, boyfriend and aunt is not quite enough to allow the powerhouse of musicality that is modern rock to hit the stage.

Now, they're about to start. Before we're overwhelmed by power-chords, let me quickly explain the harmonicity argument.
As I hinted in my last blog, guitarists are consumed by a unique problem that makes it much easier for them to play in key than out of key, mainly because all guitar tuition is tuned toward learning to play quickly in-key. And no-one thinks to criticise this as limiting; all we get is guitarists playing sequential 3rd-less chords in poor imitation of harmonic progression. And in one of those beautiful meetings of popular culture & rigorous learning, teachers all are happy to let troublesome kids get away with playing the kind of music that makes the top 100 this year. And for the kids that are already having sex, they are allowed to copy music made 10-20 years ago.

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Devil's Spawn

Ends with the lead singer claiming "I stuffed that. Sorry.". Pretty good old-fashioned rock. The band is now having something of a burping contest. Somewhat less nice. By old-fashioned, I mean that very little other than the tonic, min 3rd and 4th degrees of the scale are used. By anyone. Still, he sings like he's angry. That does quite a bit.

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[Editor's Note: I'm not up to this]
They are playing the fourth song in the set now. There is nothing for me to say. It just makes no sense that a band that postures to be somewhat expressive can do nothing other than boys-only Mills & Boon. If you were passionate, spend some time thinking about how to make your music different. If you were poetic, find some rhymes. If you were looking for something to do when you've nothing else to do then advertise as much. Please.

Mark

John Mackey Quartet - February 13 2008, Hippo Club, Canberra.

Resolutely unable to secure a seat in any of the dank corners of the Hippo club, I'm next to the drummer, my laptop screen forwardlit by 'Cocorea Korean'. At least I'll have a good view of the charts and if early indications are anything to go by, the drummer will play the poorer for the distraction I'm clearly providing.
A quick note before we start: the drummer has noticed that I'm typing something that may be construed as a review and immediately bought me a drink. This will certainly colour my comments red.

'Shorter String'--------------
The trumpeter channels Hubbard and drinks Zywiec like a gentleman, the tenor player is stuck in the harmonicity peculiar to post-bop stragglers. It is excusable for guitarists to play within their chords whilst soloing but fingersists as unhindered as horn players can do better.
Regardless, a pleasant Sunflower-esque rendition with - surprising for our earlier interaction - solid and artistic propulsion from the drummer.

A Minor Blues ---------------
The provenance of this tune is not announced, but it is a straight-ahead minor blues, without even the tritone variation of the classic of the genre 'Mr. P.C.'.
The band performs reasonably adequately here. The guitarist is given the first solo and out-performs his earlier effort. But then, is it really difficult to solo in a tune that requires only two variations on a harmonic scale?
The rhythm section here is particularly good. The bass player is effective and interesting, and the pianist and drummer are especially attentive; hang-on, the bass player just played an AWESOME response to the drummer. Boo yah!
And the trumpeter here is playing especially well. Easily the most mature of the group, he makes a good play of space and drama.
Disappointingly, the head is quite average. I think this is an original.

The rest--------------------
[The best way to secure your seat whilst at the bar is to leave an open laptop at the table* {*Canberra only}]
Another modal blues rescued by enthusiastic drumming. Very, very good drumming, actually. Extremely nice weighting of cymbal and fills during an otherwise stale instrumental solo: Tain-like rumbling that doesn't alter the frequency balance of the group whilst really pushing the tune along. The bass player here is also working the pedal-points nicely in sync with the drums; 7ths and 11ths landing on 1. Guitar disappoints here.

[Well, it always comes to this]-----
Being a trumpeter/group I'd not seen before, I was of course won over by licks-dressed-as-lamb, and it is now that I'm hearing the same repeat-note/ascend-scale lamb over and over. And the alternative is so simple! Don't play so much. Think about what you're about to play. Play it well.
What the fuck?!?

Mark

P.S. Even more disappointingly--------
During a rousing minor blues that substitutes chord 4 for the min. 2nd, and gives 5 barely a hearing, the up-till-then-good trumpet solo comes acropper: the drummer picks his riff! Obviously over-rehearsed. And it casts the rest of the gig in that particularly yellow glow reserved for pre-heated honesty.