Fables of Mingus
The Charles Mingus Big Band presents an interesting set of problems for the jazz snob. On the one hand, it’s a great thing that there’s a group of people out there trying to bring the music of one of the greatest composing improvisors of the American idiom to the people. And, for the present state of the music, gaining some legitimate recognition.
On the other hand, there’s the inevitable Wynton Marsalis problem. Anytime something hews too close to the preservation mausoleum line without much interest in moving the music forward, this particular type of snob wants to reject it.
And here, the problem isn’t even in carbon copying. I’ve written before of the thrill of seeing a group channel the ’60s Blue Note vibe or what have you. Seeing this art performed live by a bunch of true believers can be an edifying experience; something you can’t get sitting at home with the scotch and the vintage wax.
So, were they doing note-for-note transcriptions of the recorded cuts, I wouldn’t have had as much of a problem. But the Mingus Big Band really is keen on bringing the music to as many heads as possible. And unfortunately, they seem to think that means dumbed-down, ham-handed charts and vocalese. It’s like hearing Michael Buble sing over third rate, sub-Johnny-Mandel-aping-Riddle arrangements; except applied to Charles Mingus. I was about to walk out after the truncated, watered-down arrangement of “Hatian Fight Song” kicked in; until the tenor and trumpet players both stepped up to the mic and started blowing some fucking obtuse shit.
And that was what saved the night for me. While not impressed with the arrangements at all — for the most part; some of the textures and colors squeezed out of all the brass were neat, just not mind blowing — but a good lot of the solos killed. I swear to God the trombone/m.c. guy went from some lithe, fluttering butterfly shit to Slayer riffing on a dime. The extended alto intro to “Goodbye Porkpie Hat” was sublime and filled with high drama (and thankfully bereft of Joni’s vocalese mangling). The pianist, David Kikoski, was truly world class; and actually interested in coaxing new sounds from his insturment.
Where the band’s arranging did work, I thought, was on the more explicitly “serious concert music” material, Epitaph. With Mingus leaving less room for intepretation, the band was allowed to shine. It really made me want to see Anthony Braxton live. And to hurry and catch Cecil and Ornette while they’re still with us.
Given the balance between solos and arrangements, the only thing left to grate was the excessive proselytizing. One “we know who Mingus would have voted for!” would have been permissible, but by the time dude got to “God bless Charles Mingus! God bless Barack Obama!!!” (by way of the strained, “now, we know Mingus was a very political person…”), it was enough to make the thirstiest of kool aid drinkers blush. Bespectacled white guys invoking dead black jazz greats at free community music festivals is Obama’s “I’m a hockey mom.” Just sayin’.
Also, WTF City of Silver Spring?! Way to move the hit from a park to a parking lot. Class.
