Good old days… I continue to rummage through the chronicler’s notebook, and since you want a report as complete as possible, we arrive at a difficult page. I have difficulty speaking at length about things that have not involved me, or worse, have disappointed me: hence the summary of the notes that follow.
Bergamo Jazz Festival had shown off a great idea: to combine a fluid, open and airy band projected forward with a strongly structured, meticulously arranged, enlarged formation, capable of millimetric interweavings and exchanges, and above all a living witness of the mainstream, and that is literally the central current of the great river of jazz. The contrast between Enrico Rava’s Fearless Five and the Cookers could not have been more clear and calculated: very well, jazz is dialectical and polyphonic music, indeed tendentially dissonant.
But when the ball was passed to the musicians on the field, several things did not go as one might have expected.
The Five Intrepid – Let’s start with the Fearless. From previous chronicles you will know that I am a great admirer of both the musician and the man Rava: personally I consider him one of the two figures to whom today’s Italian jazz owes practically everything or almost everything. In recent years I have followed his quartet in concert several times, the unforgettable Special Edition and I almost saw the Fearless Five debut: this last formation also bears witness to Rava’s flair for discovering talents (Matteo Paggi’s trombone, Evita Polidoro’s drums). Considering his age and the difficult physical tests he has overcome in recent years, his continuous exposure to a decidedly intense musical activity and above all alongside musicians decades younger than him, creating bands with an always original approach on the fly has something a little less than heroic.
All this requires great energy: at 86 years old there are days when this is lacking. And the trumpet and the flugelhorn are cruel instruments in their marked physicality.
Fearless is a band that relies on the inputs and suggestions of the leader, on which group progressions are then created that lead to expressive climaxes in which Rava’s instrument returns as the protagonist with intense bursts of vital lyricism.
The clarity, security and incisiveness of these directional signals were missing due to energy and emission problems with consequent uncertainties. The support that Paggi’s vigorous and passionate trombone gave to its leader was admirable and generous: a sort of musical filiation that at times recalled that between the late Miles and Wallace Rooney.
But to give direction and final fulfillment to the accumulation process generated by the young Fearless, more is needed: in the past we have seen a Francesco Diodati eminence grise capable of surges of inspiration and experimental audacity that filled the sails of Special Edition and even more of Fearless.
For some time now we have not seen Diodati very assiduously with his projects in our parts: perhaps he is absorbed elsewhere, and this can explain many things. In Bergamo I saw him a bit in the background, in the wings, and this weighed on the concentration and effectiveness of the group. Nor is the bass of the other young veteran Ponticelli enough to rebalance the situation.
There was a detail that made me think that this could also be the sentiment of the stage: despite the warm support of the audience at the end of the concert, the group did not return to the stage for the ritual encore, now a must in our concerts. Better days will come, especially if the young talents Paggi and Polidoro strengthen themselves with collaborations that help them grow professionally, putting aside premature attempts as leaders on their own.
The Cookers. While my friend Rob53 went to listen to them with the noble intention of saying goodbye to them perhaps for one last chance, I had different motivations: I still had in my ears the sparkling and sophisticated swing machine that can be heard in “The Call of the Wild and Peaceful Heart”
Beware of Henderson’s soft lyricism and Cables’ refined work. Alas, I lacked historical awareness: the album is from 2016, and almost 9 years have passed. Which for a group of octogenarians (many of whom with adventurous lives behind them) makes a big difference.
Another notable (and perhaps decisive) change was the absence of Billy Harper, a natural leader, a sharp sax full of refined impetus that many kids from the 70s have not forgotten.
The septet lines up on stage, but for several minutes the concert doesn’t start: Cecil McBee’s bass seems to have problems, two technicians dedicate themselves to it. After some embarrassed irony from his colleagues and an applause of encouragement from the audience, the music finally begins.
The frontline of all brass instruments seems to proceed with a certain circumspection in the overall exposition of the themes: there is not the feline elasticity and the sure harmony that can be heard on the album. The tenor of Azar Lawrence (veteran of McCoy Tyner’s 70s groups) seems a little opaque and in any case less aggressive and biting than the Harper he replaces: as far as natural leadership is concerned there is no comparison.
A certain void that is partly filled by the protagonism of Donald Harrison’s alto sax, which however sins of a certain prolixity and constructs solos fragmented by strange pauses that create a certain disorientation in an audience that is also rather expert like that of the Donizetti.
What I remember about Dave Weiss is more than anything his breezy introductions, which skillfully gloss over certain unexpected flaws in the professionalism of a band that can collectively boast a few centuries of presence on stage. After all, the trumpet that stands out for its personality, intensity and elegance is that of Dr. Eddie Henderson: someone who, not by chance, has a clear awareness of the critical issues of the social and professional condition of the old lions of jazz (see interview in Musica Jazz of February)… Perhaps it is due to his years of clinical practice?
In the face of the regression of the group work and the crumbling of the group plot in a series of solos that are sometimes a bit disconnected and also not very inspired and effective (see Billy Hart on drums), fortunately the professionalism and sure hand of George Cables acts as a barrier, as he imprints dry and sure rudder strokes from the piano that bring the group back on track: but rather than a sure hand, perhaps we should speak of an iron fist.
The eminence grise of Freddie Hubbard’s groups and the latest and most radiant Dexter Gordon and Art Pepper is always lucid and alert, but it gives a pang to the heart to see his right leg completely stiff and the precarious dragging himself only thanks to an enveloping crutch. However, the Cookers’ book is largely made up of his compositions, which despite the non-ideal shape of the extended group still impose themselves for their unmistakable style: the very few solo outings reveal the refined class of George ‘The Beautiful’, sacrificed however to the group’s stability.
At the end of the concert we would have liked to see a bit of Cables’ impeccable professionalism also in his companions: instead we saw Cecil McBee nervously leafing through the scores on the music stand in a desperate search for the one for the encore, and Donald Harrison who instead tried to take possession of the piece by chasing his colleagues.
The curtain falls on a performance that inspires melancholic considerations on the time that is not kind to old jazzmen: men who can hardly allow themselves a serene and dignified end to their careers, especially in the dark and uncertain times of today. And listening to them even on somewhat dull and limping evenings can be our thanks for what they have given us in brighter days.
