Why should not old men be bad

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The trio had a musical rapport in all suits, which had its visual analogue in the fact that Swallow didn't take his eyes off Scofield, except to solo (when he closed them) the entire set; perfectly exemplifying the tension between playing for the sake of music with a strong element in it of the still-to-be-realised and playing for an audience. This edge-of-solipsism playing had the listeners on the edges of their seats. Yes, the audience loved it.

Then, after a break, came on stage a man and his men who has been topping others for more than 40 years. Wayne Shorter is the only musician, excepting not even John Coltrane who left the quintet before his powers were entirely developed, to top Miles Davis on the same stand and on the same night, indeed in a solo immediately after the great trumpeter had delivered the goods as he was wont to do.

So, scarcely a slur on John Scofield and co to say that moments after Wayne Shorter, John Patitucci on acoustic bass, Jason Moran on piano and Brian Blade on drums (and on something for which there is no recipe) launched into what may have been the anthem-like Great Expectations (Miles is never far away), the audience was entirely swept up by this dark Oberon into what was a dream of undefined but powerful emotions in an urgent search for an image. Shorter's elvish playing seemed to invite the listener to join him in his gentle laughter; though the question of laughter at or over what gave pause.

Another question that gnawed away at me was, what the hell is holding this music together? It was scarcely rhythm; whose intermittent presence served only to punctuate its major absence. It was not melody, although melody there was; the dovetailing solos were rather interwoven into the harmonic and rhythmic patchwork, emerging here and there as complete figures against a tapestry's ground; disappearing there like dolphins into the deeps of sound. It wasn't funk; although funk enough there was. And it was wasn't any obvious songlike harmonies; who needs changes these days? (Not these guys, anyway.)

The entire concert presented a series of such irreconcilable contrasts, not the least of which was that between Shorter's appearance; at times he looked tired and old, seeming to want to hide in the safe curves of the piano; but his playing was masterful, powerful and commanding. And beautiful, both on tenor and soprano saxes. Indeed, for instance, the loiterers were soon left stranded; when Shorter blew the introductory notes of Footprints, only those who kept close in the train of Oberon were able to follow, the waters of a sea washing in without let rapidly obliterating the trail in the sand.

The evening presented a worthy successor to Miles' late 1960s' and early 1970s' directions in music and a development of the early Weather Report; before it went pop!

Sorry you couldn't be there; or, if you were, lucky you were there and sorry I can't bring it to life better than I have.

A Shorter Introduction to Jazz

The history of jazz is a paradox; a series of paradoxes, really. It is a genre of music that insists it is not a genre; that refuses to allow itself to be considered an artifact; or series of artifacts, really. The history of jazz is full of such struggles not to become a museum piece; perhaps a "concert hall" piece would serve its métier better. But time and tide await no man; and time passes regardless; and time is the matter of history.

Its practitioners consistently, repeatedly and vocally defy those who would seek to categorise what they do.

Miles Davis must stand as the exemplum extraordinaire, to coin a phrase, of the mixed type that demonstrates jazz's counter-historical impetus, of that push never to be caught being what one was yesterday, of that fear that to be categorised is to be shackled; or worse, mummified.

Yet, despite himself, Miles Davis was ever utterly and uncompromisingly himself; through more changes than a tin-pan alley song has, Miles Davis played like no other over a career spanning a history-making 40 years.

The curse of longevity has eaten up jazz's anti-historical bias just as it has eaten up the anti-biographical bias in the case of Miles Davis, as of such exempla extraordinaires as Sonny Rollins, Charles Mingus, Dexter Gordon, Jimmy Smith and Wayne Shorter.

Such an extended introduction to Wayne Shorter is necessary because this saxophonist sans pareil, who needs no introduction to anyone who knows the first thing about jazz, stands as surely in the anti-history of jazz in the making as if he had inspired the above comments; which he obviously has.

From Horace Silver and Maynard Ferguson to Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers to Miles Davis' second great quintet and a concurrent series of releases for Bluenote as leader, to the creation of Weather Report in association with Miroslav Vitous and Joe Zawinal and the forging of fusion (whatever that may be!), to revisits with VSOP to the Miles years to supporting Joni Mitchell to full-on orchestral suites, right up to Alegria; and always with a sound unmistakable and sure, whether on tenor or soprano, whether in an acoustic setting or electrified.

In word as in deed, Shorter stands defiantly in the tradition of jazz as no tradition. Speaking to Mel Martin of The Saxophone Journal, he said: "The word 'jazz' means to me no category, but when you get stuck into wanting to do something the way it was with the 'jazz emblem' or logo chained around your neck, you play in a frozen moment in time and you keep fermenting the '50s, saying jazz should be this way or that. Well, if jazz to me means no category, then I've got the green light.

"I don't play music (recordings) when I am at home. One thing I could never do is play something over and over again. If I have it, I know it's there to be played over and over, but to actually confirm this 'something', the value of playing it over and over and over again is like a web that's spun but you can't get out of it. When you become neutral the music is more alive than you. That goes for anything, even eating too much ice cream. The ice cream is very much alive, but you're dead. The same with liquor, cocaine, and drugs; dwelling on something so that you have to end up in an institution."

If it needs to be said - and my experience with jazz is that it does - Shorter is also one of jazz's (or, whatever's) most important and influential composers of the past 30 years. The Real books and Fake books of extreme familiarity to everyone who has ever taken up the challenge to play jazz could without exaggeration be entitled The Wayne Shorter Song Book, with Others. He says of composing that it is "improvisation slowed down".

"The idea is to transcend music. And also to transcend the academia of music. Something else manifests, something else takes place. Theoretically you can say that any sound is neutral, but with the human element and the response or reaction, any song begs to differ."

Another way of saying, the music speaks for itself.

Shorter won the Downbeat poll for soprano saxophone nearly every year after 1969 and he featured on both tenor and soprano in the motion picture Round Midnight, for which Herbie Hancock won an Academy Award for best soundtrack.

Whether he likes it or not, Wayne Shorter is a part of jazz (or whatever) history (or whatever).

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Cave rave, nix licks

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But when such sentiments are converted (I do mean converted), to Australia, the results rise to new lows. Porter opens her comments about Nick Cave with a patriotic tone, but there is also a kind of vicarious materialism afoot:

"How can you not feel a surge of pride when the sort of fervour usually reserved for huge American or UK stars is bestowed on our own?"

How could one not indeed. After all, Cave has made money overseas, and there can be no greater proof of worth than that. Not only that, he is famous:

"Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are among that sprinkling of Australian artists who can truly be called international stars. No wonder this show sold out in 12 minutes."

In the world according to Jo, this concert was the place to be, famous because it was famous, international because it was international.

"It was the hottest ticket in town; indeed, the cheers that greeted the dapperly dressed Bad Seeds - in their trademark suits - when they took the stage were fuelled as much by a keen sense of privilege as anticipation. "

Now, it may be carping, but how exactly does one "fuel" cheers? Apparently, it seems, with a "sense of privilege", plus a dash of "anticipation". It might be wise, however, not to light up around such fuel, hot air can be flammable:

"Cave lit a cigarette (one of a few) as he held his microphone up to Warren Ellis' flute."

Now, it may be carping once more, but isn't the Melbourne Town Hall a smoke-free venue? Perhaps not. Perhaps if you are global Aussie act dressed in a great suit, and you like to move with "legs bowed, arm swinging, fist punching" and to lurch your "body about as if whipping a horse to the post", then no-one will be game to come up and tell you to put out your fag.

I don't know. And that is not all I don't know. I know nothing about Cave's MUSIC. OK, he makes some clever references to Orpheus, and he has lots of "immense power" and "spirituality". The lyrics sizzle, there are some erotic references to panties, and some female fans became misty eyed when Cave mentioned he is married. But it would have been nice to know something about what it sounded like. After all, I did not get the hottest ticket in town and I came up a bit short in the sense of privilege stakes.

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