By Dan Sorrells
Famished minds no longer sated by spi-raling horn, one of last
year’s standout releases, can now feast upon
Live at the Hungry Brain.
Recorded the night before renowned pianist Marilyn Crispell entered the
studio with the Midwest force of bass clarinetist Jason Stein, bassist Damon
Smith, and drummer Adam Shead, Live at the Hungry Brain features
the third of three concerts the quartet played in June 2023.
If antecedents help orient one to this music (more on that anon), Crispell’s
presence—along with Smith’s place in a bass lineage that passes through Mark
Dresser—makes it tempting to call up Anthony Braxton’s storied Forces in
Motion quartet. This isn’t really that. In terms of sheer brow-sweat and
preternatural interaction, the music onLive at the Hungry Brainis
more allied with Crispell’s incursions into the Evan Parker/Barry Guy/Paul
Lytton trio. Here, as there, she’s a shining light settled into the very
heart of an established trio’s sound, backlighting its dense tangles from
within, casting different shadows. But such comparisons are at best a
makeshift compass. They’ll get you pointed in a direction, but reveal little
about what you’ll find upon setting out.
“A Borderless Event” begins with Smith and Shead in an agile coalition,
Smith deftly springing between arco and pizzicato. Shead’s
rapid patter can be reminiscent of those clattery Europeans like Lytton, but
his assertive feeling of pulse often positions him as a more marked rhythmic
goad. As Crispell and Stein enter, the group traffics in a dizzying array of
ideas before winnowing into Stein’s increasingly fretful solo, pierced by
chiming piano chords. Crispell’s chords soon fray, rapidly spilling notes,
the pressure mounting until the rhythmic elements have superheated and
Stein’s dark looping calligraphy has transformed into glowing, Twombly-red
coils. Even at its most unfettered, Stein’s eloquence with the bass clarinet
is remarkable. Spanning the breadth of its range, he rafts the complex
timbre of his instrument over the piano’s melodic swells and into the rich
undercurrents of the bass and drums. On the shorter second piece, “Bone
Eaten Up by Breathing,” he finds a strong rapport with Smith as they trade
lines through cascading piano and cymbals, Stein eventually stepping back to
send the rhythm section along with Crispell’s hypnotic arpeggios, beautiful
and intense.
Music of this intensity, being played at this level, is possible not only
because the approach provides a platform for spontaneity and virtuosity, but
because it is a conduit for instruction. Here’s where forebears return. It’s
hard to talk about music like Live at the Hungry Brainwithout them.
Describing the music in the manner I just attempted falls short, but the
players themselves are a reference—a living history—a genealogy of past
selves setting expectations that they presently rework. Smith has made no
secret of his belief in the importance of playing with “elders,” and his
formidable technique and instinct have been honed over decades of
apprenticeship with experienced improvisers of every stripe—players exactly
like Crispell (or Roscoe Mitchell, who has also joined the trio in
performance). Likewise, Crispell has recently spoken of her deep love of
playing with younger musicians who seek her collaboration; the conduit
directs flow in both directions.
So, the resulting music is astonishing, slippery. It’s novel, but not free
of influence. It is a crucible. This influence extends beyond music and into
engagements with abstract visual artists, poets, even practices of body and
mind like those Milford Graves conveyed to his student Stein. Rarely do
these things directly initiate the music. But, acknowledged—added later as
song titles, liner notes, album art—they sound their own sort of resonance,
expressing accord or juxtaposition that’s beyond (or even before) fumbling
attempts to speak of them. Like the visceral Cy Twombly paintings that grace
the covers of the quartet’s records, this music also lays bare the physical
work that it essentially is. It’s abstract not because it is
inscrutable but because it remains largely ineffable, constituted wholly of
but never adequately described by the gestures of its makers. Our
fascination lies in this mysterious something emergent in the work, prone to
dissolve when we focus our attention too keenly on the parts: just a mark on
a canvas, the strike of a tom, a bow dragged across string. “Tear a mystery
to tatters,” Barthelme said, “and you have tatters, not mystery.” Our hungry
brains devour the likes of Live at the Hungry Brain, our ears drink
in this vital music, the vitalizing talent of these musicians. But our
mouths, agape, can’t quite find the right words.