Original image by There Stands the Glass.
As I feared, Samara Joy performed “Guess Who I Saw Today” at the Folly Theater two weeks ago. Yet by turning the threadbare standard inside out, the celebrated star won me over. I was pleased to have put my money where my mouth is. One or two of my November concert recommendations for KCUR should likewise provide satisfactory returns on my out-of-pocket investments.
Original image by There Stands the Glass.
My race against the clock becomes more urgent with each passing day. I’m committed to becoming as fully aware and completely realized as possible before I die.
Most of my free time is devoted to reading and deep listening. Jeremy Eichler’s new study Time’s Echo: The Second World War, The Holocaust, and the Music of Remembrance allowed me to indulge in both pursuits.
A combination of history and musicology, Eichler’s work focuses on four classical compositions inspired by the Shoah in the years before, during and after World War II.
Get this: I hadn’t previously heard any of them. Richard Strauss’ Metamorphosen, Arnold Schoenberg’s A Survivor or from Warsaw, Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem and Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No 13 (Babi Yar) came as shocking revelations.
I share Eichler’s conviction that music can act as a form of time travel as well as a metaphysical means to commune with the past. Having eagerly absorbed Time’s Echo, I’m able to use the portal with enhanced sophistication.
Original image by There Stands the Glass.
Everything you might care to know about my current state of mind is encapsulated by my steadfast commitment to attending Thomas Rosenkranz’s recital at White Recital Hall on Friday, October 20. (The recital streams here.)
The rare opportunity to hear a complete performance of Olivier Messiaen’s Vingt Regards sur l’Enfant-Jésus appealed to me more than attending concurrent concerts by Travis Scott or the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra.
Friends and loved ones declined to join me when upon learning they were being asked to endure two hours of challenging solo piano at the free concert presented by the UMKC Conservatory. The translated title of Messiaen’s work- Twenty Contemplations of the Infant Jésus- was a nonstarter for at least one person.
The piece is best experienced alone anyway. Upon selecting a seat allowing me to watch Rosenkranz’s frenetic fingering, I placed my phone on the floor and didn’t once turn around to check on the responses of the approximately 100 people in the auditorium.
Transfixed, my mind only wandered to consider how curious the composition must have seemed to listeners at its premiere in 1945. It still sounds otherworldly. Allusions range from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to George Gershwin. Messiaen also seems to have anticipated the innovations of Philip Glass and Cecil Taylor.
Yet musicological musings are a secondary consideration. During one segment I sensed the incomprehensible magnificence of God from a proximate vantage point I hadn’t previously experienced. Three days later, I’m still trembling.
Original image by There Stands the Glass.
The clothes worn by Brent Cobb, a long-haired country boy from Georgia, at Knuckleheads on Wednesday, October 18, included cowboy boots and an Otis Redding t-shirt. The music he performed with a four-piece backing band was a correspondingly diffuse blend of Southern rock, outlaw country and swampy soul.
Cobb opened the show with folk-tinged songs he jokingly called “hippie sh*t” like the wry “Keep ‘Em on They Toes” before digging into vital variations on the iconic sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd.
Three sets of imbeciles within a ten foot radius of my front-and-center position amid the audience of approximately 500 rowdy fans who paid $25 for entry (I was comped) marred the otherwise stellar experience.
Their infuriating shrieks are audible on my Instagram clip of the raucous “Devil Ain’t Done”, my favorite track on Cobb’s latest album Southern Star. While the incessant yapping throughout the extremely loud concert was a physically impressive feat, it was a bad look for the “Bar, Guitar and Honky Tonk Crowd”.
Conventional wisdom would have people believe that jazz and punk are diametrically opposed forms of music. The transgressive spirit of the two forms are actually the same. As a teenager swept up in the initial punk revolution, Television’s Marquee Moon and Miles Davis’ Dark Magus seemed like two sides of the same coin when the albums were released in 1977. Both recordings sound like precursors to Echolocation, the new album by guitarist Ava Mendoza, saxophonist James Brandon Lewis, bassist Devin Hoff and drummer Ches Smith. The quartet fuses raw metallic power with free improvisation on the crunchy Echolocation.
Original image by There Stands the Glass.
Hilary Hahn’s solo recital at the Folly Theater on Friday, October 13, administered spiritual balm in a fraught moment. The violinist offered 90 minutes of ethereal restoration for members of the near-capacity audience of about 950 rattled by current events. The room’s excellent acoustics allowed Hahn’s elevated reading of four timeless works by Johann Sebastian Bach to sanctify the back row seat I purchased for $20. The event was less a concert than a consecrated prayer.
Pinball is an apropos title for the new recording by St. Louis percussionist Kevin Cheli and the Kansas City guitarist Seth Andrew Davis. The three improvised tracks are flush with ricochets, tilts and caroms. Even so, the abrasive give-and-take might as easily been named Curb Stomp, Avalanche or Glitch. Only the most inured listeners will appreciate the album. Yet dedicated aficionados of mayhem will recognize the constant churn of Pinball as a monumental achievement.
(Need of more noise? Davis and his collaborators in the Extemporaneous Music and Arts Society are regularly featured at the Kansas City jazz blog Plastic Sax.)
Receiving a flu vaccination is akin to intentionally getting jumped in an alley. Given my fragile constitution, I can count on being laid up between three to twelve hours after being dosed. It’s a drag, but it beats the alternative.
I rushed home after getting jabbed at Walmart yesterday. Before crawling into bed, I hit play on Reconnaissance, a posthumous release of works by Kaija Saariaho. I don’t know how I came to add Reconnaissance to my queue, but the June release perfectly matched my self-inflicted affliction.
Head-spinning tracks like "Tag des Jahrs: III. Der Herbst" performed by the Helsinki Chamber Choir made me unable to distinguish between the recording and room ambiance in my delirium. Having since recovered, I’m still not sure what to think of these hallucinatory sounds.
My lifelong love of music is littered with abandoned relationships. Numerous passions of previous years now seem like fleeting fancies. The Clash is among the indispensable bands of my teens that now seem childish infatuations. I abandoned my passion for roots music about 15 years ago. Given my current immersion in highbrow art music, my ongoing attraction to Earl Sweatshirt is unlikely. Yet much as Doris floored me in 2013, I’m currently infatuated with the grimy Voir Dire. My allegiances may be fickle, but I’ll be surprised if I’m not listening to Earl for the remainder of my life.
Original image of Citric Dummies by There Stands the Glass.
A handful of the 100 punks at the companion venues Farewell and Howdy on Thursday, October 5, propped themselves up with canes and walkers. The people half my age might have suffered their debilitating injuries in precisely the sort of mosh pits that made the concurrent shows dangerous.
Like the decrepit concertgoers, I deliberately put myself in harm’s way for three hours during performances by six bands. I felt fortunate to stumble to my car with only a wrenched wrist, a few bruises and ringing ears. I paid $15 admission for each show. A chronological rundown follows.
1. Konrad Hell and the Highwaters (Farewell) A friend’s description of the Kansas City group’s concept as spiritually akin to Sid Vicious’s cover of “My Way” is close to the mark.
2. C-Krit (Howdy) Even though the obnoxious miscreants are musically inept, their ultraviolent spewing was my favorite set of the night.
3. Citric Dummies (Howdy) The Minneapolis trio are Hüsker Dü hooligans.
4. Vintage Crop (Farewell) Shouty Australian indie-rock.
5. Alien Nosejob (Howdy) The Australians’ myriad variations of punk and garage rock exhausted me.
6. Jackoffs (Farewell) Punk fatigue and an aching wrist compelled me to surrender after 15 minutes of fury.
