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Knicks
vs. Jazz
The
Bell Atlantic Jazz Festival's
chief audience-drawing rival has always been the JVC
Jazz Festival. When a custody agreement was struck last year,
giving Bell Atlantic (then still known as the "What Is Jazz?" Festival
in the days before corporate name-tagging) the first two weeks of
June and JVC the last two, it seemed that all conflicts were finally
concluded and no scheduling problems would keep asses out of their
seats. But, like the Heat,
the Hawks,
the Pacers,
and so many others, the Bell Atlantic Festival underestimated the
Knicks. Even
their harshest detractors had to admit that the Knicks' battle against
the odds was the best drama on television, the best story in the
newspapers, and the most popular topic of conversation in town.
You couldn't tear yourself away—unless, of course, you had
to jump in a cab and get to the Knitting
Factory.
There were no conflicts with the first gig of the Festival, since
it was an afternoon show in Bryant
Park—well, no basketball
problems, anyway, though my
work duties kept me from catching the ubiquitous Jason
Moran's set. I had admired his fine work on the Hammond
B3 at a recent Greg Osby gig in the Knit's Old
Office and, while I missed his band, he was sitting in with
Stefon Harris.
Harris put
out some nice vibes, but the real treat was the Danilo
Perez Trio, whose "Central Avenue" album kept me company through
much hot weather. The trio raised a real ruckus for a three-piece,
thundering throughout the park and spilling onto the streets. Perez's
two-fisted piano attack is equal parts Latin and be-bop (he played
in Dizzy
Gillespie's last band)—something he demonstrated by improvising
Latin versions around jazz classics ("if we put a little rice
and beans on it, it sounds like this...").
The next evening offered the intriguing Renegade Way, also known
as Steve
Coleman, Ravi
Coltrane, Greg
Osby, and Gary
Thomas—yep, four saxophone players. But, like many all-star
jam sessions, it proved that it is indeed possible to have a little
too much talent in one place. Not that they were bad, or anything,
but they kept jumping all over each other. Then Coltrane's lyrical
tone or Osby's heavy-thinking virtuosity would shine through, but
then they'd all start up with some other big idea. With a little
more rehearsal, it could work but, as it was, things tended to get
blurry and a bit overwhelming.
At least there was nothing to keep me from Game
3 against the Pacers, so I didn't miss Larry
Johnson's four-point miracle
play. And miracle it was: With about 50 seconds to go in the
game, I literally began trying to cut a deal with God, giving specific
arguments as to how a victory would benefit each of the individual
Knicks, as well as the entire city of New York, as well as giving
me a reason to go on living. And there it was: the magical three-pointer
we thought couldn't possibly fall, but did. And the foul they never
call, but did (the call also had the added benefit of really, really
pissing off Reggie
Miller). And after the Big
L came off the court, all he could say to the NBC talking head
was "Praise Allah."
Literally: "So, Larry, were you just in the zone?"
"No, no. No zone. Allah Akbar."
"Uh, that's a prayer..."
Larry Johnson, who found Allah,
went vegetarian, lost 20 pounds, and somehow found a three-point
shot in the off-season—well, Larry clearly beheld some greater
power when he made that play. (Between this and Iraq beating the
U.S. in the World Cup, I'm thinking Allah is the one to see if you
want to win a game.)
But back to the music. One show I had been eagerly awaiting was
John Zorn's Masada
because a) I'd heard from three different people and the New Yorker
how great they were, and b) they were playing at the Angel
Orensanz Arts Foundation (a.k.a. the old synagogue on Norfolk
Street), one of the most festive settings for anything in the city—three-story
ceilings, stained glass, Christmas lights, and a band where the
altar used to be. (I once go-go danced at a Popsmear
party here—badly, I might add, as I only made $7 in tips and
all that from women. I also had to dress up as Bettie
Page for a short film that was shot here. But I digress.) The
crumbling synagogue was the perfect setting for Masada's exotic,
Far Eastern/Northern African sound and had perfect acoustics. Somehow
even the 100-degree heat only emphasized the mysterious, desert-like
atmospherics. Zorn
often led by bringing out the best in his sidemen—sitting aside
for one entire number as Dave
Douglas's trumpet soared through a number reminiscent of "Sketches
of Spain." Two things I've never been able to abide (well, there's
more than two, but…) are jazz improvisation and Klezmer music, but
Masada's reconstruction of these and other musical influences is
enough to make me reconsider my position. But the Orensanz Foundation
was packed and even after an hour-plus set, the crowd wasn't ready
to let the band go, as they stood, clapped, cheered, and stomped
their feet until the band came back out for a brief, bombastic encore.
Even on nights when I had no Bell Atlantic duties, there were still
conflicts: Wednesday was the only day both Andrew
Clevenger, one of our ersthwhile contributors, and I could make
it to the Joe
Lovano/Greg
Osby gig at the Vanguard—the
same night as Game
5. We met at the Riviera
beforehand, since it provided the maximum number of televisions
and the most minimal distance from the club. I had trouble eating
my cheeseburger and wondered if I should've just ordered a few shots
instead as the first quarter ended with the Knicks
14 points down. Still, Camby
was in unstoppable mode, and our faith was rewarded as the warriors
of Madison
Square Garden rallied, kept the Pacers at bay, and tied the
game at halftime. We finally dragged ourselves away sometime during
the third quarter—relieved that it seemed that the two-headed
scoring monster of Spree
and Houston
had been awakened, but sorry we were going to miss the carnage.
Despite persistent insistence that these two kids couldn't play
together and one would have to be disposed of for that point guard
everyone's always talking about getting, I always felt that this
was a perfect combination waiting to happen. And Sprewell's
bursts of flashy, passionate play have proved to be an excellent
complement to Houston's graceful, clinic-like execution.
But we left for the less-volatile, though just as complementary
combination, of Joe
Lovano and Greg Osby, supporting their new "Friendly
Fire" disc. The band came out rather late—my friend Steve,
who works the door, did acknowledge that there was a battered
black-and-white TV in the back somewhere, and the fact that the
band finally appeared right about when the third quarter would've
ended made me suspicious as to what kept them (not that I'd blame
them). The rhythm section was augmented with the surprise addition
of Greg Osby's good buddy, the ubiquitous Jason Moran. The two sax
men worked the alto, tenor, and soprano combinations, including
one double-soprano number with a flute solo from Joe. And the fire
was indeed friendly—no cutting contest, but a series of duets
and swapped solos, with the non-soloing fellow stepping offstage.
Still, it was an elegant gig, with two polished players showing
off their formidable chops.
Not part of the Bell Atlantic was Booker
T. and the M.G.s at MetroTech,
the opener for their always-impressive Rhythm & Blues Festival.
Booker T. and company are still a formidable outfit after over three
decades in the business, rocking all the golden-age Stax
hits. The MetroTech festival is a great one—not only because
the lineup is consistently stellar, featuring artists like Irma
Thomas and Solomon
Burke for free, but the crowd is fantastic, giving the artists
a lotta love and a lotta soul and getting it right back. Booker
T. praised the day-camp kids who attend all the Festival shows for
their good behavior—"you've got some beautiful children here"—and
it's probably nice to see all those shining young faces down front
instead of your usual grizzled oldies crowd.
I made my first pilgrimage to this year's new venue, the South
Street Seaport Atrium for Tropical Night, mostly because I wanted
to see the legendary Skatalites and I always enjoy Marc
Ribot y los Cubanos Postizos. Brenda
K. Starr was rounding out the Tropical Night/Puerto Rican Pride
weekend kickoff outside on the pier, and you had to fight your way
through packs of mamis gripping each others hands, dragging each
other through the crowd, and guys in baggy shorts hanging around
the outdoor bars, all of them waving Puerto Rican flags, and every
so often a pallid little creature in a black T-shirt mumbling, "Are
you going to the jazz festival?"
Now, the Seaport Atrium venue has a few problems, chief among them
being that it's a FOOD
COURT. Yes, some of the finest artists in jazz today, play amid
daiquiri and hot dog stands, with just a curtain separating them
and their audience from hundreds, indeed thousands of tourists munching
on potato skins and perusing the clearance racks at the Limited.
Sure, you could step outside onto the third-floor balconies, sit
in one of the Titanic-style
deck chairs and gaze out over the Hudson, but the atmosphere sucked
and the acoustics were not quite all they could've been. (Apparently
the Seaport people offered Michael
Dorf a real sweet deal on the space, thinking it would lure
hipsters down to the Seaport—and it did, but we all swore we'd
NEVER come back.)
But, how was the show? Well, it was supposed to start at 8pm, I
arrived at 9:30pm, and the first band started 10:45pm, accompanied
by the booming voice of...Darth
Vader? I wondered if Star
Wars branding had actually gone that far for a moment before
I realized it was just plain old James
Earl Jones, welcoming us on behalf of the mothership. No apology
for the space or the time, though. Conrad
Herwig's Latin versions of the music of Coltrane and Miles Davis
were festive and bouncing, but I would've enjoyed it more an hour
earlier. The set's highlight was an appearance by pianist Eddie
Palmieri, who skidded some nice figures around a Coltrane composition
and inspired some of the bored, ska-loving college kids to break
into their version of the
Ricky Martin.
Marc Ribot and his band never fail to put on a good, festive show,
pointing out that they'd gone on "Right on time: 9:20." Despite
the persistent pacing of some impatient rude boys, the crowd seemed
to be picking up a second wind—and, thanks to a trip to the
bulk candy store next to Gap
Kids, so was I. But, like most sugar rushes, it didn't last
long, and even the infectious rhythms and upbeat call-and-response
of the Postizos couldn't perk me up from slumping against the disconnected
ATM machine. I finally gave up on the Skatalites
and began the long trek home.
I had been looking forward to the Abbey
Lincoln/Teri
Thornton show, and our own Lee
Jeske swore that, since Ms. Lincoln is the closest thing to
Billie Holiday
we have and I'd never seen her (well, I'd never seen either of them,
but...), I couldn't afford to miss her. But could I afford to miss
Game
6 against the Pacers? And if I missed the end to rush down there,
would I just wind up waiting two hours anyway? Still, despite all
my best-laid plans to tear myself away in the fourth quarter, it
just didn't happen. How could I leave, once the Big
L hit the ground in pain and was carried back to the locker
room? And Allan Houston rose to the occasion—picking up the
slack really seems to be Allan's forte—with 32 giant points?
Once things looked secure (which they didn't until the last half-minute,
knowing how fate has been unkind to our Knicks
in the past), how could I leave then? And miss the redemption of
Latrell
Sprewell, as he proved to himself and to the world that the
long road back was a trip well worth taking? Miss lil' Marcus
Camby leaping around in undisguised, unabashed joy, finally
coming into his own as a player with not only skills but heart?
Miss these guys who I love so well having one of the happiest moments
of their entire lives, miss the payoff of all the times I attacked
(sometimes physically) those who said the Knicks
suck? But most of all, how could I miss Reggie "Well, I Used to
Have Game" Miller hanging his head and walking back to the locker
room in shame?
Well, I missed none of this, but after about 10 minutes of postgame
excitement, I jumped in a cab downtown, and I must admit the lights
of Brooklyn have never looked so pretty. By the time I got to the
Seaport, the box office was closed and I was directed through a
back entrance. Apparently Abbey Lincoln had performed the old Miles
Davis switch-up and decided to go on first. Not that I would've
dragged myself away from Spree and Camby's victory or even their
victory laps. And I did get to see Teri
Thornton, who was a more than acceptable substitute. As good
jazz singers become an increasingly rare breed, thank God someone
resurrected her. Ms.
Thorton's semi-Cinderella
is as follows: a brief rise to fame in the early '60s, followed
by several decades of cab-driving, family-raising obscurity. She
was battling back from cancer when she won the Thelonious
Monk Competition and, voila, a star was reborn. In her
late set, Ms. Thornton showed off her honey-smooth, but gravel-edged
voice and true
diva presence (not to mention diva-worthy couture—a black,
beaded vaguely Victorian number). Eschewing the piano, she stood
front and center, offering up a few standards, but mostly original
material, including her Latin-flavored setting of the Lord's
Prayer. Another standout was a number she described as "35 years
of blues," which blurred a little roadhouse on the edges of the
food court, culminating with a gutbucket invitation for the audience
to "check out the limbs on me," as she raised her flounced skirt
to mid-thigh and propped a gam up on the monitor.
The next day was the final show back at the Angel Orensanz Foundation,
the dueling organ summit between Reuben
Wilson and Big
John Patton, which had a little more fire than the Lovano/Osby
pairing—it wasn't as flashy and polished, but it had more spontaneity
and was a bit more of a cutting contest. Patton's five-piece band
held the stage behind the two esteemed gentlemen, occasionally exchanging
"Where should we come in now?" glances whenever the organists got
too involved in volleying riffs back and forth or locked onto one
and drove it to the ground. And everyone in the place was grooving,
jiggling in their seats, with one particularly volatile woman emitting
intermittent shrieks. And, of course, when Wilson and Patton got
up to take their bows, the diminutive Wilson looked like Mini-Me
next to the six-and-a-half foot Patton.
So, since I'm sure los Knicks are going to make the playoffs next
year (Vegas is
giving us 6-1
odds for the championship), I say Michael Dorf sets up a giant
television screen in the food court one night and has a Knicks jam
session. Really: Get a bunch of musicians, and let them improvise
accompaniment to the game. Give each player a theme, make funny
little sax noises every time the opposition misses a free throw.
Sure, it sounds weird, but it'll save us all having to decide between
the Knicks and the jazz, at least for one night.
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