|
Hartmut
Geerken's eclectic voice returns, here in the esteemed company of two
champion improvisers, and a glimpse at his instrument inventory for the
date recalls that old adage about the kitchen sink. Thankfully, he makes
democratic use of most facets of his arsenal over the course of the disc.
The live concert taped at the Praxis Festival on the anniversary of the
German surrender and the close of World War II visits the trio shortly
after a lengthy tour of Africa, with the continent and its peoples fresh
in the musicians' minds. Geerken's opening "Patriotic Number One" pays
homage to the historic day through an unbroken barrage of collective cacophony.
Tchicai's bleats and squeals twist knotty shapes around Geerken's pummeled
keys, and Moye is a blur of percussive tidal force. The vocal poetry of
the piece takes shape in a litany of largely nonsensical exclamations
by the three that in turn elicit enthusiastic responses from the crowd.
"Sawasawa" is shaped around a cyclic motif that conjures a spinning sonic
vortex and Tchicai's tenor twirls around Geerken's piano in ever decreasing
arcs before the piece's close. "Races Places Faces and Asses", a jocular
ode to the diversity of backsides across the globe is most significant
for Moye's incredible drum solo which is, according to Geerken, his lengthiest
on record. With "Mohawk" and "Mothers", the group pays respects to two
pioneers, Charlie Parker and Ayler, and the interplay starts out almost
conventionally before the ineluctable dive into liberating improvisation.
On "Mohawk", Geerken walks a casual circuit through his pile of instruments,
banging, tapping or scraping briefly at one before moving on to another,
all the while adding mirthful scats to Tchicai's muscular tenor explorations.
With "Mothers", Geerken returns to his piano stool and sallies forth in
a marvelous conversation with Tchicai while Moye keeps a loose, percolating
pulse behind the two protagonists. "Marconison" is saturated in Geerken's
space-age short wave radio manipulations which lend an even more bizarre
air to his accompanying prepared piano tinkerings. Clocking in at over
eleven minutes, what is initially intriguing quickly becomes monotonous
until Tchicai enters with some emphatic counterpoint. Similarly, Tchicai's
warm flute saves "Cassava Snake One Pot" from drowning in the deep end
of self indulgence. "Mikel Black", an incantatory chant veiled in a waterfall
of chimes, evokes the African vistas so recently traversed by the trio
on their tour. This release is well worth exploring in detail and offers
an auspicious beginning to Leo's new label.
Derek Taylor
|