Was I feeling like a laboratory rat taking part in a god’s science project when I first spun a Blue Note, ECM or an Impulse vinyl? Getting mildly electrocuted by wires in a maze while looking for cheese or a way out – an apt description for my life, your life, our lives.
Did I have a debilitating heartbreak, the kind documented by musicians of various leanings – from bleeding-heart bluesmen like Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf to pop pickpockets like Bread and Meatloaf.
Was I down on my luck? The last coin of one compulsive gambler faced with 10 slutty and oppressive slot machines. Or a rabbit missing a foot. Or the foot wearing the lucky albeit smelly sock. Or the sacrificial Hanged Man in a deck of Tarot cards. Or like Peter Hook of New Order playing Temptation on the set of Baywatch (which really happened).
Was I ecstatic when I put on the first jazz CD I ever bought? Or giddy with the first day of summer like Bugs Bunny ("Hello, rock! Hello, carrot!") before being abducted by a Martian, or being pursued by a hunter with a speech defect?
Truth is, I don’t remember what I was feeling when I popped John Coltrane’s "My Favorite Things" album one day in the early ‘90s, never mind if it were a sunny, rainy or an apocalyptic day.
I find the Julie Andrews song quite daffy. (Although with the methods of deconstruction, the lyrics could be taken as a metaphor for a hallucinogenic experience – "cream-colored ponies" are spotted right after "snowflakes" drop on the nose and eyelashes… Hmm… very Lewis Carroll.) But Coltrane with his soprano saxophone took the title track to the pearly gates of Valhalla. The sheets of sound spiral, meander and ramble on. The saxophonist took a silly, loony tune and made a piece of music that recalls a man in Bombay mesmerizing a deadly cobra with a flute, while counting a few of his favorite things.
From that point on, I never looked back. There was Miles with his many Picasso-like phases: the subtle "The Birth of the Cool," the steamy "Cookin’" and "Relaxin’," the bombastic orchestral beauty of "Sketches of Spain," as well as the edgy "Nefertiti" and "Sorcerer." These albums left critics in a lurch as to how to classify the sonic sorcery spun by Miles and his sidemen (Bill Evans, Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter, Tony Williams, Wayne Shorter, John McLaughlin, Joe Zawinul, Chick Corea, and even John Coltrane, among others).
Miles’ music hits listeners like a pugilist or a hallucinogenic drug. From the impressionistic "Kind of Blue" (no one plays silence better than Miles on this album) to the bitchy aural brew of the loud, electric, brooding and über-funky "Live Evil," "Bitches Brew," "Black Beauty," and "On the Corner," among others.
After classics like "Blue Train" and "Giant Steps," Coltrane figured his message had to be enfleshed in a new medium altogether. Or more cryptically, the message must become, itself, the medium. In "Ascension," "Meditations," "Om," "Interstellar Space" and "Live at the Village Vanguard," Coltrane ceased being a gifted musician and became a deeply spiritual being with the gift of tongues. This is most apparent in the classic "A Love Supreme," one of the most moving pieces of music of all time.
Other great jazz artists include master harmolodicist Ornette Coleman ("The Shape of Jazz to Come," "Free Jazz," or "Song X" with guitarist Pat Metheny). Eric Dolphy who made classics like "Out to Lunch," which straddles the fine line between form and freedom. There are also jazz/rock hybrids the Mahavishnu Orchestra, the Tony Williams Lifetime, Gateway, Weather Report, and Return to Forever – bands that are heavy, loud and as inspired as legendary rock groups like the Jimi Hendrix Experience and Cream. There are also some great finds from Jaco Pastorius, Stanley Clarke, Al Di Meola, John Zorn and Bill Frisell.
Ah, jazz. You just can’t get enough of it.
Before, I usually watched blues musicians at Crazy Elephant, also at the same area with the rows of bars and restaurants along the Singapore River. But when my brother took me to Harry’s to watch house band ChromoZone, I got hooked. Harry’s is the place I go to for jazz, booze, and infinite peanuts.
The walls of Harry’s Quayside digs are festooned with photos of guests that include trumpeter Wynton Marsalis and Bob James, who I thought at first was Salman Rushdie. If it turned out that it really were author of The Satanic Verses, I wouldn’t be surprised. The place is that good.
Harry’s resident band is led by Christy Smith, who alternates on upright and electric basses. (Smith, who hails from Compton, California, reminds me of Chuck Rainey who provided the low-end on landmark records by Steely Dan and Rickie Lee Jones – essential stuff). The other musicians include Nicholas Lim on piano and keyboards, Eddie Lee Layman on drums, and guitarist Rick Smith, who bears a striking resemblance to the legendary Pat Metheny. (By the way, Rick plays as tastefully as the sonic architect of albums like "Zero Tolerance For Silence," "American Garage," and the excellent "Bright Size Life" – featuring Jaco and drummer Bob Moses.)
ChromoZone performs with different lead singers for a stretch of one or two weeks, usually Black-American belters with whole lot of soul and wardrobes that would make Erykah Badu and Macy Gray look ultra-conservative. When I went to see ChromoZone recently, the band featured LaDee Streeter, who even sang Spiral Starecase’s Our Day Will Come.
The band’s sets are swingin’ and smokin’. Christy and company could navigate the funky terrains of songs such as Chain of Fools, as well as Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together and Take Me To The River. The guys from ChromoZone also play straightahead jazz, and they make it look so easy. They do stuff such as Love for Sale (a Chet Baker and Oscar Peterson show-stopper), That’s All, Bluesette (with quotes from Somewhere Over The Rainbow), and I Got You Under My Skin, among others. Also included in the band’s repertoire are blues numbers and a couple of R&B tunes such as Change the World and Georgia On My Mind.
Christy and Rick always visit our table when they see my brother and me, and talk about everything from Larry Carlton to Telecasters to techniques on how to phrase guitar licks in such a way that they’d sound intoxicatingly sweet. Rick phrases so well – whether using his vintage red Tele or his semi-acoustic (which I think is an Ibañez). He cut an album titled "Bali Lounge" with world music stalwarts in Indonesia. I heard Rick segue from Take Me To The River to the electrifying riff from Purple Haze. Christy has an album of jazz standards featuring Now’s The Time, The Chicken (a Pastorius staple), and some of his originals.
It would be swell if ChromoZone’s songs for the evening remain as inexhaustible as the bar peanuts.
Those were the days, man. I was working for a cosmo-demonic company at that time, and every day was like a dress rehearsal for the Apocalypse. Really dreadful writing assignments the boss would make us do. I once interviewed a guy who fashions himself as the country’s Neil Sedaka, and attended a sort of Olympics for beauticians. Playing music with Bob was therapeutic. The man was an amazing drummer. The great thing about him was that he could tolerate amateur musicians. Laurence, though, had strong fundamentals. Me, on the other hand, could play lead guitar the way the Elephant Man would play harmonica: very, very badly.
We jammed on Juan de la Cruz songs such as Beep Beep and Ang Himig Natin; Jimi Hendrix’s Red House, Purple Haze and Voodoo Chile; Cream’s Sunshine Of Your Love; The Police’s Message in a Bottle and Every Breath You Take; and occasional jazz tunes like Miles Davis’ Summertime (although I flubbed the chord changes) and a variation of a Dave Brubeck vamp.
Bob ruled those jam sessions. The man was one really good rhythm monster. It was a mystery why someone who was influenced by Steve Gadd, Rush’s Neil Peart, Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, and the Mahavishnu Orchestra’s Billy Cobham could play with people whose asses would be kicked by Siakol any day of the week.
I remember taking a San Mig break after jamming and talking with Bob about his favorite Mahavishnu album. He liked "Inner Mounting Flame," while I preferred "Birds of Fire." Bob talked about how The Police’s Stewart Copeland toys around with accents, and how he was blown away by seeing ’Trane drummer Elvin Jones bash those skins. Bob could talk about Tony Williams all evening, even demonstrating signature licks from the leader of Lifetime. He once told me the story of how he sneaked into a Chick Corea’s PICC concert by pretending to carry Dave Weckl’s cymbal.
One time, I was invited to a poetry reading in Malate, and I got Bob to play drums for me. Friends such as Lourd De Veyra, Bert Sulat and Kris Lacaba were all there. Although my poem was as pretentious as a drunken Jim Morrison soliloquy, I felt really confident because one of the country’s best drummers backed me up. I was like a karaoke habitué performing with Keith Moon.
Bob had a heart ailment, which I was vaguely aware of. He had a gig at the Meralco Theater just before he died, fulfilling his wish to journey to the Great Beyond right after a drum solo onstage. Ironically, in the souvenir program, Bob was described as "a drummer with a big heart." Come to think of it… snares, rides, toms, cymbals, brushes and sticks – don’t they all sound like one huge heart?
Life may be short, but the beats are infinite.