Blogs. I look with some disdain upon MySpace and Facebook and doubt I would ever sign up. And I've never really gotten with the blog notion -- it always seemed a tad self-indulgent. But here I am at the urging of The Cadence Crew doing what is euphemistically called the "Editor's Blog."
Having a blog is easy, but maintaining a blog is not so. As this blog is associated with Cadence Magazine, it seems to me that the focus for people reading it should be about music, specifically about Creative Improvised Music, Jazz -- call it whatcha want. But I am not just about music. My larger intent, in varying degrees, is about art in its various disciplines: literature, painting, music, architecture, and so forth. As for writing about music, well, that's what I do, as I can, for Cadence Magazine.
Then there is the problem of time. Bill Dixon once told me it is the ultimate resource. That was back when I possessed few monetary resources but had lots of time. Now that I have monetary resources but precious little time, I have come to truly appreciate Bill's words. Time is the ultimate luxury.
When I undertook this commitment to a blog, I was assured there would be no pressure: "Write whatever and whenever you like." Yeah, right. I wish. The reality is it hangs over my head like a term paper due at the end of a vacation.
I've decided to write about everything and nothing and reprint some items from Cadence that I wrote in the past 35 years. Since I've evoked the spirit of the late Bill Dixon, I've included below a piece from the January 2010 (p.46) Cadence, which I think is a fitting tribute to this artist, now deceased (June 16, 2010).
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DIXON
BILL DIXON (b.1925)—trumpeter, educator, painter, and of October Revolution (1964) fame—has had a profound influence on improvised music over much of his 60 plus year career. Over those 60 years releases of his music have been limited and select and, for the most part, notable. But since the late 1990s, coinciding with the decrease in involvement of SoulNote (an outlet for his music since 1980), Bill seems to have become more open to releasing his works on smaller independent labels. The latest, TAPESTRIES FOR SMALL ORCHESTRA (Firehouse 12 #4-03-008), a 2-CD set of music (Motorcycle ‘66/ Slivers/ Phrygian II/ Adagio/ Allusions 1/ Tapestries/ Durations of Permanence/ Innocenenza. 1:08:48) and a DVD (Bill Dixon: Going to the Center. 30:57) recorded July 8-10, 2008, with Taylor Ho Bynum (tpts), Graham Haynes (tpts), Stephen Haynes (tpts), Rob Mazurek (cn), Glynis Lomon (cel), Michel Cote (cl), Ken Filiano (b), and Warren Smith (perc). The music overall is vintage or refined Dixon. Bill deals in structures that, at their heart, possess amorphous color, bits and pieces of tones, flurries of activity that slowly and purposefully mogait into a refined kaleidoscope of sound(s). He makes exagger- ated use of space and tension and layers sound(s), simultaneously removing other sound(s). His music here is full of the stasis that is the identifier for most of his recorded music. Or, perhaps it is fair to say, at its best the music suggests the illusion of stasis in its yawning waves of sound color. Most importantly for this listener, this music engages my heart and elevates my heart rate; as much an inspiration to receive as I’d imagine it was to contribute to.
This set is attractively packaged in a 3-disc digipak accompa- nied by a 12-page booklet that includes photos of members of the ensemble and reproductions of some of the leader’s paintings. But what really sets off this offering as uniquely exceptional is the half hour video from the recording rehearsals—a wonderful portrait of the man, the artist, and the artistic process. And in its message of the latter, universal to a wide range of artistic disciplines.
Bill Dixon can be very intimidating—and for good reason. He is brilliant in his thinking and clarity of analysis, in general, of the position of the artist in society and the responsibility of people who claim the title artist. He has a bulldog-like stance, exaggerated by his pouty look and full-bearded jowls. His beautifully articulated and patrician speech is delivered in a series of what could be termed “demiurgic pronouncements.” More often than not these pronouncements are both sermonesque and serious. His being is so pronounced as to be easily parodied and, as profound as his deliv- ery is, I have known him to also make the most absurd statements/ judgments with the same fervor so that one has to laugh at the con- trast and absurdity. But there is none of that in this video, which is not only a tutorial for the project at hand but which also addresses the artistic stance as a whole. Whether or not you enjoy his music, this video should be viewed by anyone who wants to know why some engage in unpopular artistic efforts.
I’ve spoken with many people who have encountered Bill—one even characterized himself as part of the legion of the walking wounded—but, to a person, they all acknowledge his gifts. Also evident is the highly positive effect he has had on his students’ (many of whom I have produced for the CIMP label) artistic posi- tions. But one does not create mountains without causing valleys (and, to me, both are of value). To stretch the metaphor further, Bill has irritated a good many, especially those in the media, due to his unflinching characterization of what is, for much of it, a dishon- est, shallow, and politically corrupt system that masquerades as objective.
I remember attending a concert at the Victoriaville (Quebec, Canada) festival in May (19) 2002. Before the concert of a trio with Dixon, Cecil Taylor, and Tony Oxley, there was a morning press conference with Bill. The usual questions were offered up and Bill’s answers were prickly enough to beg more provocative questions. Eventually Bill pilloried the North American media (in particular)—and fairly so (though he unfairly zeroed in on Coda Magazine, probably as they were represented and convenient, yet undeserving. Were Coda the worst of the media, there would be little to complain about.). Here he was speaking directly to representatives from essentially all the major North American Jazz media and telling them in essence they were ignorant, misdirected philistines, unworthy of any art or artists’ attentions to them. And basically pushing their faces up against what is both clear to see but unwanted. The press conference ended with less of the glad-handing that often follows these affairs. That evening at the concert I was in a circle of “critics,” all discussing the press conference and Mr. Dixon. One offered up the comment: “Well, I was prepared to write nice things about this (concert) but not after what he said,” proving exactly Dixon’s observations and accusations and obviously feeling comfortable enough with this clutch of critics to suggest we were all in agreement. Only one, in the circle, took umbrage at the suggested judgment.
Aside from this point, for me there was another enlightening moment. The concert was rather unfocused and unrewarding. Frankly, I thought it was a mess but it got positive reviews; I won- dered if the reviewers heard the same concert I heard. And when a recording was issued (on Victo), through the magic of editing and mixing it sounded far more coherent. Draw your own conclusions, but I wonder (and granting well-deserved respect to Messrs. Taylor, Dixon, and Oxley) how the same critical evaluation might have differed had the same concert/recording been by Cecil Doe, Bill Brown, and Tony Smith.
*Tapestries for Small Orchestra* is a wondrous document. Two solid offerings that fit well into the body of work from this artist, and an engaging video from a brilliant mind, leading music and a discussion.
-Bob Rusch
© Cadence Magazine 2010
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Uppermost in my thoughts for the past eight weeks has been my knee. I had a full knee replacement June 11 and it has been on my mind ever since. Well, not always on my mind -- it's only on my mind when I move. I like to move and I like to hike and that was my rationale for replacing what was a fast deteriorating knee. It was the same rationale I used three years prior when I had total hip replacements done on both hips.
Now, both types of replacements are painful procedures. So painful that the X-rated painkillers you are prescribed don't even make you feel good … happy they just make you feel less in pain. I mean, part of the reward of pain should be *happy pills*. I'm a kidney stone maker, a masonary job for which one does not need an apprentice period. But at least with kidney stones -- after you've birthed them and wrenched your head out of the wall -- you can enjoy the aftereffects of the painkillers you took, which by now have transported you to Happy Land where everything is "no big deal" and all people are "tolerable" and you understand in a way no sociologist could ever explain why junkies are happy in their nod.
Back to knee surgery. Unlike a disease or something one can medically eradicate from the body, there is little to make of relative progress. In the operating room, they knock you out (yet, as with one of my hip replacements, I was sometimes conscious -- but that's another tale), shove a bunch of tubes into places that, if conscious, you would never allow, cut your knee skin open, push the kneecap aside and replace the joint, push the kneecap back into place, and staple it up. You come to within minutes (at least, that's the plan) after which they ship you off to your room and tell you to be prepared to stand up and walk in 12 hours. They do leave you with a friendly morphine pump that not only relieves any pain one assumes is present but even makes visitors bearable, at least for awhile. One lesson I did learn from my first hip replacement: don't in some ignorant macho heroic moment have them disconnect the morphine pump, telling them that you "have not used it and don't need it." Little did I realize that I'd be coasting for six hours post-op on the happy juice they filled me with pre-op.
Sure enough, twelve hours later after knee surgery, they make you get up and imitate a walk. After that there's not much else they can do. Unlike when treating a disease, they can't say, well, your temperature is down or up or this vital sign is better or worse or the tumor is growing or shrinking or the creeping crud that covers your body is growing or retreating. Nothing. There is no gauge; you're on your own. You leave the hospital within 48 hours or so and they tell you to walk and flex your knee (actually an over-inflated football which now sits where once you had a knee) in ways that are obviously contrary to every sensory receptor in your nervous system.
They wheel you out to your car. Car! They should tell you to bring a hearse because at least it would accomodate you. The problem is you arrive with a knee that bends for easy entry and egress of a car, but you leave with a four foot projection of a leg that is content to do nothing, let alone bend into a car seat. But they explain that bending the knee is good … you can't hurt it (but it sure as heck hurts you) … it's all therapeutic.
So now it has been eight weeks since surgery and my knee still hurts though the over-inflated football is less inflated. But I can't tell if I'm doing well or not. Is my recovery on track? Will this all eventually end and I'll walk with the gait of a normal old, overweight, dyslexic person? Will the time come when my nighttime routine doesn't involve painfully removing myself from bed (anxious to relieve my prostate-intruding bursting bladder), frozen for the 60 seconds or so it takes me to get my legs moving?
I have done about an hour of exercise every day, much of it in this stifling, humid summer. It hasn't made me feel better. In fact I need to rest afterward but not before my wife puts aside her gentle persona and makes me stretch in ways I could not stretch even before my operation. I go through all of this because I'm led to believe it will help me achieve my goal of a "normal knee." Normal is what I previously never wanted to be but now desperately desire.
So anyone out there who has had knee surgery and remembers the experience, please call or write and let me know where I stand (no pun intended). It would be extremely … therapeutic.
Cheers,
Bob Rusch