By Taylor McDowell
Most of us probably remember first hearing Cecil Taylor’s music. For me,
it was Air Above Mountains (Buildings Within) (Enja, 1978): a solo
recording that embedded itself into my mind and gut. I recall feeling
mesmerized and, frankly, confused as hell: knowing what I was listening to
was profound but I couldn’t grasp why.
That initial point of deflection hurled me along a path of discovery and
wonder: confronting Taylor’s massive discography and trying to gain better
sense of his genius. I craved reading more about Taylor and accessing as
much of his music as possible – like turning over rocks to discover flecks
of gold. My appreciation of his artistry grew with each new and repeated
listen, coupled with disparate interviews and articles I found online.
Much has been written about Taylor and his music over the years, but
conspicuously missing was a published biography of the man and his music. I
knew it was a matter of time before some brave journalist endeavored to
synthesize the story of one of the most prolific and enigmatic figures of
20th-century music. After hearing of Freeman’s new book, published by the
wonderful Wolke Verlag, I instantly set about getting myself a copy.
Like the other Wolke Verlag books I own, it is beautifully published and
printed: a thick stock softcover with Taylor’s likeness consuming the front
cover. The photo of Taylor, seated at the piano and adorned in sunglasses
and a bucket hat (essential Taylor accessories), was taken from his
Orchestra performance in Warsaw, 1984. Over 300 pages of material span
between the covers and include many photos from over the years.. It’s the
kind of book that earns a permanent place on the coffee table or is
featured prominently on the bookshelf.
In the Brewing Luminous is Phil Freeman’s fourth book, though he
might be best known as the founder
of
Burning Ambulance
(also a record label). Recently, he led the initiative to upload the Leo
Records catalog to Bandcamp, but more on that later. Phil’s exposure to
Cecil Taylor is documented throughout the pages of his book, such as his
first encounters of Taylor live in New York:
“The music was far too much for me to absorb; they played a single
60-minute piece that I received like a child standing in a tidal wave pool
at the water park, repeatedly smashed down but determined to withstand
whatever came my way.”
And later culminating with his time with Taylor leading up to the 2016
residency at the Whitney Museum. The author’s personal experiences, while
not dominant, come to the fore at times. It’s a reminder that Cecil’s music
is a highly personal and subjective experience; we, as listeners, can’t
help but be reactive to his art, so why write a book that attempts subvert
this experience? It also worthwhile to mention Markus Müller’s striking
preface, which highlights Taylor’s monumental presence in Berlin in the
80’s and 90’s. Müller’s recollection functions as the flip side of the same
coin: the European experience of an American phenomenon.
At its heart, In the Brewing Luminous is a musical biography –
linking together events and periods of Taylor’s life that define his
artistry. Freeman makes it clear from the beginning: the intent of this
book is to illuminate the biographical details of Taylor’s life that lend
to his music and art; beyond that, you won’t find the little tidbits of
personal information standard to “bio-dramas.” In some aspects, this book
functions as a narrated discography and sessionography. We can follow along
Taylor’s globetrotting tours, trace the many permutations of his unit and
orchestral works, chart the evolution of his solo performances, and
participate as the proverbial fly on the wall during his numerous studio
recording sessions. Each chapter deals with a discrete period (e.g. Part
VIII: 1980-1987) and exhaustively covers each of Taylor’s musical
maneuvers: setting his personal encounters and artistic developments
against the arc of his career totalis.
Freeman opens the story with a short, but deeply personal introduction
describing his interaction with Taylor leading up to the 2016 event at the
Whitney Museum: Open Plan: Cecil Taylor. The initial chapters
deal with Taylor’s early and formative years: his relationship to his
parents, the influence of his mother during his youth; later, his formal
education in music, his time in Boston at the New England Conservatory, and
early gigs as a professional musician back in New York. The book continues
to unravel his long career, highlighting his earliest studio records and
the criticism that followed him, “breaking free” in Sweden in 1962 and
meeting such iconic figures as Sunny Murray, Andrew Cyrille, Jimmy Lyons,
Albert Ayler, etc. We learn about Taylor’s views on musical notation and
his propensity towards rigorous rehearsals, where he would dictate passages
to his acolytes so they could learn it by ear. Taylor’s academic stay at
the University of Wisconsin (and later Antioch and Glassboro State
Colleges) was crucial to his development as a bandleader, composer, and
arranger. We also hear from his former “pupils,” such as bassoonist Karen
Borca and saxophonist Jameel Moodoc, on Taylor’s idiosyncratic approach to
rehearsals.
Later chapters deal with Taylor’s legendary residency in Berlin in 1988,
which led to the career-defining box set published by FMP. Taylor was no
newcomer to Europe at the time, but in the late80s, and following the
untimely death of Jimmy Lyons, Cecil’s ensembles became more of an
international affair. Reading about this prolific period of Taylor’s
career, we can’t help but imagine this was the apogee of his art. Also
discussed is his increasing use of dance and poetry within performances
(and, at times, poetry recital being the entire performance).
Freeman invites us readers to listen to his recorded poetry, such as
Chinampas
(Leo, 1987), in the same way we would listen to his solo piano: that the
rhythmic quality of his words, emphasis on certain syllables, or the volume
dynamics of his voice really aren’t all that different from his approach to
piano.
The chapters that I found most illuminative were those that deal with the
twilight years of his career and life. By this point, Taylor has long been
recognized by the world and established as a leading voice in creative
music. Choosing not to slow down, Taylor’s creativity flourished in the
late’90s and 2000s in a series of partnerships, new and old. His
collaboration with Tony Oxley continued, even expanding into a trio with
Bill Dixon. Taylor also spent a great deal of this period working with
various large ensembles and orchestras. It was, as Freeman describes,
“…the ultimate fulfillment of Taylor’s compositional principles…” Some of
this music was recorded, though unreleased at the time of writing, giving
us hope that these recordings will surface one day. Freeman was present at
a number of Taylor’s performances during this period, and later during his
retrospective at the Whitney Museum. The author’s personal accounts make
the final chapter especially vivid, especially for someone (myself) who
never saw Cecil Taylor live.
Occasionally, these chronographic non-fictions run the risk of becoming
tedious play-by-plays. Freeman avoids this pitfall for several reasons.
First, the text is rife with quotes and interview excerpts from Taylor and
his associations. The voices of, say, Andrew Cyrille, William Parker,
journalist Chris Funkhouser, or Taylor himself breathe life into the text.
One such passage quotes Gary Giddens on the climatic recording session that
produced the 3 Phasis(New World, 1978):
“After about forty minutes, [producer Sam] Parkins exulted, ‘We’ve got a
record now!’ — but ten minutes later he was worried about whether Taylor
would stop in time: ‘I hope he stops pretty soon, because I’d hate to cut
this. I’ve never been to anything like this before, have you?’ Taylor
punched out a riff, his hands leaping as fast and deft as a cheetah, his
arms almost akimbo. Everyone was eyeing the clock nervously and with giddy
excitement. And then, nearing fifty-seven minutes, just short of the
maximum playing time for a long-playing album, Taylor began to wind down
for a dramatic finish. Observers burst into the studio with excited praise,
and the laconic Taylor was heard to say, ‘Well, you know we knew it was
good, too.’”
Secondly, Freeman capitalizes on what he does best: describe the music in
lucid terms. Taylor’s music, like most free or improvised music, isn’t
easy to describe. So, Freeman leans on metaphors and easily discernable
analysis when writing about Taylor’s music. On describing Tony Oxley in his
inaugural meeting with Taylor, which produced Leaf Palm Hand (FMP,
1988):
“His [Oxley’s] kit sounds like it’s made of hard plastic and he’s tapping
at the toms with pencils; his cymbals sound at times like aluminum can
lids, at other times like they’re in the next room. He rattles across the
kit as quickly and dexterously as taylor overruns the keyboard, and his
leaps between the lower and upper registers of his multifarious instruments
mirror the pianist’s, in spirit at least. He never seems to be
following
Taylor at any point. And yet, their duo is absolutely that. They are not
just playing simultaneously, they are playing together.”
I read In the Brewing Luminous twice. I ended up doing the same
thing both times: re-listening to many of Taylor’s recordings. This is
where I think Freeman does a service in his book: he encourages the readers
to approach Cecil Taylor’s music, again and again:
“Let it hit you like a flood for the first time. Wash yourself in the waves
of the notes. Then come back — a day later, perhaps. Play it again, and
this time listen as carefully as possible. Focus on his opening gambits,
and trace their paths through what follows, like a nurse injecting colored
dye into a patient and watching their veins reveal themselves. If — when —
you get lost, listen a third time. A fourth. A fifth. At some point, it
will unfold before you like a flower, and the beauty of his conception will
be fully audible.”
Arming us (the reader) with descriptions of the music or anecdotes about
Cecil when the music was recorded, these repeated listenings become a
little richer and more satisfying. Like, for example, hearing traces of
Taylor’s style yet-to-be in his earliest recording, Jazz
Advance(Transition, 1957); Or hearing his fully-formed
compositional/arranging vision realized in his short-lived 1978 Unit.
Regardless of your exposure to Taylor’s music, there is always something
new and exciting to be gleaned through repeated listens.
In the Brewing Luminous
provides the footnotes to add depth and context to that listening
experience.
In the Brewing Luminous is an achievement, not only as the first
and only Cecil Taylor biography but because it makes Taylor (and his music)
approachable. It’s the kind of book that I wish I had years ago when I
first heard Air Above Mountains. But even today, as a devout
Taylor fan, it is a book that encourages me to do what I enjoy most:
indulge in the music.