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11/14/00
Jazz Mandolin Project, Charlie Hunter and Soulive at Trax
Though appealing primarily to the young "hippy" set, these three "jazz/jam" bands owe more to the works of Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock than they do to the Grateful Dead, the Allman Brothers or even Phish. These are acts schooled in the lexicons of jazz performance-- people who take musicianship very seriously while still relying fairly heavily on the foundations of R& B, soul and funk for their impetus. As this show progressed, I started seeing how, after decades in the backroom of popular consciousness, jazz might actually be poised to regain-- or at least reaffirm-- its rightful and respected place in our artistic culture.
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The show blew wide open right out of the gate with a burning set by Soulive, a fresh power jazz/soul trio reaching new heights of groove with a high-brow jazz organ aesthetic ala the great Jimmy Smith. Soulive proved dynamic enough to seriously fire up the audience with amazing solos by guitarist Eric Krasno and organist Neal Evans, who also held down bass duties from behind his massive Hammond B-3 organ.
There is something truly sublime about the Hammond organ and the whirling Leslie speakers it blows through. One of the most evocative instruments in the electric spectrum, an organist can lean on a note, speed up the rate of the Leslie's whirling speakers and send chills running up your spine, frequently bringing audience members to their feet. Combine this powerful effect with Evans' capacity to simultaneously hold down wicked contrapuntal bass parts with his left hand and you've got a very intense musical massage.
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Next came eight-string guitar legend Charlie Hunter's Latin-jazz fusionisms. Backed only by a dynamic percussion duo, the mighty Hunter ran through a gamut of salsa-inspired jams, tearing it up on both the guitar and the tambourine (Hunter is a very accomplished tambourinist), making crazy faces, grunting and occasionally yelling at the top of his lungs. Like Neal Evans in the band before him, he manages to hold down both bass and lead parts on his eight-string Novax guitar, a bizarre looking instrument with fanned (rather than parallel) frets set up for more tonal uniformity and better pitch accuracy than a regular guitar. (Few people realize that guitars are "tempered," that is, due to compromises in the instrument's design, notes are "relative," not "absolute." The individual strings also sound quite different from each other. The Novax is engineered to overcome these inconsistencies.)
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Finally, the Jazz Mandolin Project came on for a set of their unusual jam variations, providing something of an anti-climax for a night of rather fierce improvisation. Not that they weren't really good-- they just weren't driven to close the show with a peak, choosing instead to kind of ease out by including Charlie Hunter and friends on percussion for an extended but somewhat mellow outro.
Ironically, the Jazz Mandolin Project-- the one out of these three acts that actually uses the word "jazz" in their moniker-- was the furthest musically from any kind of traditional jazz, owing more to folk and spacey rock. The Mandolin Project's "jazz" is really in their approach only, as they used their spacey melodic groove tunes to stretch out like jazz improvisationalists. Tonally, not jazz at all, but philosophically, perhaps somewhat.
All in all, the night of nuveau-jazz was $12.00 well spent for a medium-capacity Trax crowd, though I felt the order should have been reversed, with newcomers Soulive closing the show with some of that powerful organ freakiness.
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11/17/00
Floggin' Molly and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones at Trax
This show was nuts. Packed full-tilt with 16-20 year old moshers and crowd-surfers, I've not seen Trax this frenzied since the Dead Kennedys played there in the mid '80's. Floggin' Molly threw down impeccable, angst-ridden, drunken, slam-down Irish folk punk, complete with fiddle, mandolin and accordian-- driving the audience into ecstacy with their anthemic sing-along-and-mosh craziness. Very powerful.
Boston's Mighty Mighty Bosstones are riding high on the crest of the most recent ska revival wave. A suit-clad, horn-backed, skanking powerhouse complete with a toaster (Traditional jamaican ska bands always contained a "toaster"-- generally not the lead vocalist, but a kind of emcee who dances, sings a little, and occasionally adds vocal percussion noises.), the Bosstones had the crowd-surfers legs-up and rolling around the overstuffed and sickeningly hot Trax main room. I looked up and as is too often the case, the house fans weren't even turned on.
Sometimes I get the impression that Trax really doesn't give a rat's ass about their audience's safety or comfort. These four fans are rarely turned on no matter how full and uncomfortable the place gets. And when they actually sell out the room, there's a no re-entry policy, so you can't even step out for a little relief.
What happened next only affirmed my worst cynical fears. The Bosstones singer started having words with a Trax bouncer.
"Hey man, do you need a time out? You seem a little hard-headed... Kiss your ass? You want me to kiss your ass?"
A tour roadie stepped up on stage and the unthinkable happened. The Trax staffer followed him up and-- right there, in front of an audience well over 800 strong-- unceremoniously punched the roadie squarely in the jaw!
I'm sorry, but no matter the circumstances, there is no excuse for this kind of worthless crap! I hate to be inflammatory about a venue that allows me to come in and pursue my livlihood with regularity, but isn't there some ethical code about not striking people in the venue? Who hires these dumfucks?
All too often Trax reminds me of the club in the Blues Brothers movie (the one that has both kinds of music-- country and western), because it treats its patrons like annoying cattle to be endured and prodded along rather than valuable clientele to be generously catered to. I know that running a large venue like Trax is no cake-walk, but a little compassion, courtesy and self-control would be greatly appreciated.
And please turn on the goddamned fans! We're smothering in here.
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