A snowy canvas unfolds with splashing cymbals and droning flute tones in the opening moments of Tenhi’s 2002 opus, Väre. From its inception, the record’s heavy atmosphere stokes the imagination, guiding the listener on a meditative sojourn into chilly, leafless timberlands swathed in silvery brume. If their debut were a misty, spring morning and their later releases (Maaäet) an autumnal evening, then the Finnish collective’s sophomore full-length would embody the lonely, cold months in their discography. Despite the limitations such an analogy would imply, the band manages to explore a remarkable range of moods using their distinct brand of folk-flecked progressive music. Like with Kauan and their 2000 ep Airut: Ciwi, the band employs a virtuosic use of space here. Minimalist structures reinforce the listener’s sense of solitude and the predominantly acoustic instrumentation, especially the string arrangements (“Suortuva”), emote a sadness that is nothing short of beautiful. Icy piano melodies wander the musical clearings between denser moments (eg, “Vastakaiun”) and guitars regularly appear in pairs and intertwine like birch roots(“Keväin”). Tyko Saarikko’s low baritone is distant throughout and often layered, giving his understated vocal performances a somewhat religious, chanting quality (“Kuolleesi jokeen”). The album’s more driving numbers, “Jäljen”, “Sutoi”, and “Katve”, serve to break the trance and lace more exotic hues through Väre’s mournful complexion. Throbbing bass and jaw harp texture the runtime of “Sutoi” and a didgeridoo forms the trunk of “Katve”, which groans beneath the force of howling flute and brisk acoustic strums. Album highlight “Jäljen” displays tinges of progressive rock with its heavy strings, jaunty rhythms and intricate percussion. If a fault were to be found, it would be in the record’s length. Some listeners will find it challenging to endure 55-plus minutes of sparse, introverted melancholia. However, there is little fat to be trimmed as each passage feels essential, like the individual sinews of a large, ancient tapestry. The band seems content to take their time and give the utmost consideration to the way in which they choose to speak. So, as with anything worthwhile, patience pays off. While Tenhi’s style would later be perfected with 2006’s Maaäet, their second record remains an engrossing dark folk experience crafted by one of the genre’s most interesting bands.
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For 30 years, many simply considered Louis Thomas Hardin, Jr. to be one of the more eccentric vagrants that line Manhattan’s walkways. Few New Yorkers knew that when they flipped their spare change to the spear-toting, horn-capped, wispy-bearded “Viking of Sixth Avenue” they were giving to a man who had transcended insurmountable conditions, acquired blindness and homelessness, to become one of the 20th century’s most gifted and under-recognized musicians. By 1969, the Kansas-born composer, who wandered into New York City and adopted the moniker “Moondog” in the late 1940s, had almost a half-dozen recordings to his name. That same year, after a 12-year recording hiatus, he reentered the studio at the invitation of producer James William Guercio to commit a new album to tape for Columbia Records. The result, simply titled Moondog, would feature compositions Moondog had been constructing for more than a decade, including two canons, two "minisyms" (short symphonic-styled pieces for miniature orchestras), three symphonic works, a chaconne memorializing the legendary saxophonist Charlie Parker (“Bird’s Lament”), and ballet music written with modern dance pioneer Martha Graham in mind ("Witch of Endor"). The collection would come to be known as a singular entry in the catalog of Third Stream music and possibly Moondog’s finest hour. The music here could be described as minimalist; however, with its composer taking cues from the shrill car horns and rumbling subways of the Big Apple, it is by no means lacking power. Not unlike Borges and his fiction, Moondog encapsulates in six minutes or less the intrigue and magnificence of a larger-than-life symphony. The whirling “Minisym #1” bursts at the seams with menace and drive despite its stunted runtime, and the melodies woven throughout “Symphonique #3 (Ode to Venus)” boast a poignancy that could rival Elgar’s famed Cello Concerto in E minor, Op. 85. Jazz elements are just as prevalent and at their most in apparent in pieces like “Symphonique #6”, where clarinets croon with big band flair in apt tribute to the “King of Swing” himself. Moondog’s disdain for convention and his knack for genre fusion are intoxicating, but the album’s standout is his flawless integration of unusual percussion and odd meter, or what he called snaketime, into his distinct amalgam of modern classical elements and jazz leanings. Instruments of Moondog’s own design punctuate the record’s introductory “Theme” with peculiar rhythms before seguing into the equally serpentine snare and timpani work of “Stamping Ground”. It’s a fitting opening statement for a man who would “not die in 4/4 time”. Quirks notwithstanding, this collection is arguably less "experimental" than some of Moondog's other works. The music is surprisingly accessible given its origins, yet its ambitiousness and creativity is none the worse for wear. The Viking may have been blind, but his vision was crystalline. Moondog is a career highlight of an unlikely hero, who amidst the clatter of a busy street corner forged a path all his own. For someone who had the stones to criticize J.S. Bach for his counterpoint “mistakes”, it must have seemed like the only way to go. Rhapsody in Blue, Sketches of Spain, Jazzical Moods, A Symphony of Amaranths - Time and again, artists from the classical and jazz realms have endeavored to meld jazz extempore with the rigor of orchestral music. Results have varied, but as the previous list indicates, the effort has birthed more than a few classics. American fusion outfit Oregon made a run at this art form, often dubbed “Third Stream”, with their 2000 offering In Moscow. The quartet allied with the Tchaikovsky Symphony Orchestra of Moscow to debut a decades-old orchestral repertoire that has been performed with a half-dozen orchestras on both sides of the Atlantic, but never formally committed to tape. Simply put, the results are exquisite. Sparks of magic abound on this beautifully textured synthesis of folk, jazz, and orchestral music and the band’s novel blend of instrumentation is placed on full display. For 90 minutes, two seemingly disparate genres commingle with esemplastic grace and there’s nary a gimcrack moment to mention. Woodwind wizard Paul McCandless predominantly explores the abstract themes with support from Ralph Towner’s virtuosic acoustic guitar playing and Glen Moore’s sinuous double bass as well as tasteful piano and uncommon percussion. The music’s momentum is expertly controlled, fluctuating fluidly between scored refrains and improvisational brilliance. Much of the material boasts an East European flair and the arrangements provide a lush bedrock and pathway for numerous musical highlights, including the morning sun warmth of “Round Robin”, the forest floor intimacy of “Beneath an Evening Sky”, the rhythmic exercises of “Waterwheel”, and the soaring cello leads of Towner’s iconic “Icarus”. One notable standout is the slow burning “Free-form Piece for Orchestra and Improvisors.” Unlike the album’s orchestrated numbers, this one is actually an improvisation for conductor. The piece would have to turn out differently each time it was performed. The orchestra is divided into three sections. Each section has ten composed mini-compositions at hand, and they’re cued by hand signals from the conductor. It must keep the artists on their toes. Harmony works out well, since Towner has allowed for all the combinations. The members of Oregon stretch out over this scenario for eight and a half minutes. It works out rather well, particularly the impetus from bass clarinet and guitar. It seems essential to note that In Moscow garnered four Grammy nominations in 2001. With instrumentals as splendorous as this, it’s easy to see why. This performance at once captures the refined expression of composed music and playful openness of jazz. It is a career-defining moment, an essential collection in the glowing catalog of a brilliant band, and a prime entry in the Third Stream canon. The progenitors of Zeuhl ended a decades-long silence when they resurfaced in 2004 and surprised devotees and critics with Köhntarkösz Anteria (a.k.a K.A.). The crown jewel of the Ëmëhntëhtt-Ré trilogy, which also includes 1974’s Köhntarkösz and 2009’s Ëmëhntëhtt-Ré, the record shows Magma at their apex, brandishing their original blend of hypnotic jazz fusion, otherworldly, frenzied, Orffian choral chants, Bandleader Christian Vander’s signature serpentine drum work, and unrelenting musical tension. The first fragments of this continuous three-piece suite were conceived in 1973-1974 and intended to serve as the harbinger of the aforementioned compositional sequence. They appeared in bits and pieces on the mid-70s release Inédits, but were never fully realized. The trilogy slipped into antiquity with only its Köhntarkösz portion ultimately seeing the light of day. Who could have guessed that Vander's risky decision to dust off and revive this piece more than 30 years later would pay off in almost every conceivable way? All of the band’s greatest qualities intermingle on K.A. The rhythmically inventive jazz fusion elements a la Köhntarkösz-era Magma ring clearly as they filter though the lyrical intergalactic atmospherics of Vander’s modern-day songwriting lens. It’s a melding of the primitive and the celestial, a music born at the line where earth and sky meet. Couple this sensation with outstanding recording quality and the result is one of the band’s stoutest, most rapturous opuses. Standout moments abound and include when the rhythm section joins the odd-time vocal theme at the start of Part I and when the furious bass line punctuating Part II’s quirky vocal refrain hits full tilt. Despite its consistent nature, the piece’s highlight would have to be the indelibly infectious 7/4 groove driving the extended jam at the start of Part III. Analog synthesizer chords bounce atop churning drum beats and are steadily built upon by guitar, bass, and a five-member chorus until the piece erupts with a coda resembling a maniacal, extraterrestrial relative of Beethoven’s “Hallelujah chorus”. The finale is a wonder all its own. As a genre, Zeuhl can be a tough nut to crack, but the effort can be rewarding. For those who are willing to be carried by alien grooves and perhaps indulge in a little madness, K.A. bears that reward. As a document of a band transcending their former selves and doing so without sacrificing an ounce of their power, it stands as one of progressive rock’s finest "comeback" albums, one that is sure to stand the test of time. |
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