The Rarefied Airs of Andrew Hill
I have some empathy for the snobbery of avant-garde jazz purists. While it's easy to imagine them as an alienated coterie of overwhelmingly white-male, pointy-headed misanthropes, their narrow-minded taste helps pry open a small niche for hardy renegades who don't follow the gospel of either freeze-dried tofu like Kenny G or Dave Koz, or the soul-less, neo-conservative catechism of Wynton Marsalis and his many acolytes. Nor are they latter-day moldy figs (a la Ken Burns) who think jazz stopped evolving the day Miles Davis died.
Truth be told, I too enjoy the inward smirk of superiority that comes from "getting" the artistry of Ornette Coleman, Matthew Shipp, Cecil Taylor, or the AACM crowd. My only son's first name is Mingus, and if I ever had two more, plans were to dub them Monk and Rollins. So let there be no doubt, I'm cool.
But for all you clueless Koz fans, I've got a confession to make. For me, at least, challenging, cerebral, "avant garde" jazz is not only an acquired taste, but one that requires the right, somewhat random, combination of situation and mood in order to be thoroughly savored. There are days when I crave to hear John Coltrane blowing sax like his balls are being rubbed through a cheese grater (check Ascension for that), or to set my ears like hamsters on a chase through one of Anthony Braxton's impenetrable, Escher-like song mazes--but those days are few and far between.
Much more often, I go for the guys (yeah, almost all men) who use the fundaments of bop, funk, blues, gospel and swing to leap into the magical realm of the great musical beyond. In that respect, the aformentioned Holy Trinity of Mingus/Monk/Rollins can be almost a daily fix. Which is all to say, the more there is pulse, rhythm and passion to help me through the knotty concepts, the better I like my "outside" jazz cats.
Pianist Andrew Hill is one of those semi-avant gardists who I treasure for the saving grace of their inimitible spunk whilst laying out their Big Ideas. Hill came to prominence as one of those envelope-pushing composers on Blue Note (others included Sam Rivers, Graham Moncur, and even Wayne Shorter and Jackie McLean), whose rumbling note-clusters and unique time signatures put some pretzel logic in the label's durable hard bop. "Point of Departure" is his personal masterpiece from this period, but there were other outings as both a leader and sideman where Hill's stalwart individualism was as welcome as it was obvious.
More recently, after a long hiatus and some relatively obscure, mostly solo piano discs in the 1980s and 90s, Hill has enhanced his profile with a couple of typically iconoclastic ensemble records on the Palmetto label. Last year's Dusk is akin to his Blue Note days, aptly named for its dark, shadowy melodies and its sunset blend of bright colors and wistful reflections. But it was the big band recording, A Beautiful Day that got me excited about seeing Hill at the Walker last Saturday night. With 17 pieces to play with, Hill could layer turbulant horn cacophanies over and against his prickly piano runs and off-kilter, but ever-swinging rhythms.
My colleague David Schimke has already weighed in on his blog about his disappointments with Hill's performance. I was less bothered by the sound problems, but agree that saxophonist Greg Tardy and bassist John Herbert were inadequate to the task of fully interpreting Hill's music, especially when compared with Marty Erlich and Scott Colley, his foils on the recent records. Tardy seemed intent on screwing up his face and mightily blowing some fearsome skronk, but it was almost laughably devoid of juice. Herbert just seemed like he was plumbing his thumbs in time to another band.
But mostly my lack of appreciation was a collision of mood, situation and expectation. I wanted a jolt of energy--more of 'Trane's balls, less of Braxton's geometrics--and Hill was otherwise inclined. The pianist was content to understate, to hunt and peck out his concepts. It's revealing that one of the night's most invigorating tunes, "Tough Love," was actually a solo piano number that came off as relatively restrained on Dusk. If it wasn't for Nasheet Waits' marvelously bristling fills, asides, and goading accompaniment, I seriously think I might have gone to sleep.
But that isn't Hill's fault. The audience gave Hill a reverential, then triumphant reaction, and as much as I might like to rag on the purer-than-thou, esoteric self-regard of Walker patrons, who am I to say the emperor had no clothes on? More likely, it was my mood and lack of receptivity to the subtle interplay and quietude that zoned me out. By the same token, I make no apologies for my disinterest and somnambulance. I am a big Andrew Hill fan, and the gig didn't win me over. Any rebuttals from the pointy-headed misanthropes that gave the man a standing O?
6:33:39 PM 
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