At the conclusion of each testament of the Freedman Fellowships—as at the end of each Wangaratta Festival Of Jazz—there is a round declaration that this was the best ever. My immediate reaction is to nod assent, but after reflection it seems that my memory of previous years is too vivid. Perhaps it is the case that we are impressed and amazed that the standard remains so high. In the case of the Freedmans, so it should. The finalists have arrived at the Opera House Studio after a sternly deliberated process of elimination. To reiterate, the judges must be impressed by the recorded performances submitted, and also by the entrants’ projected use of the prizemoney, as well as by the final live performances.
Has anyone delivered a more imaginative and exciting final performance (just one factor to be considered, although it must have an enormous influence) than earlier winner Phil Slater’s, or Adam Simmons’s?
The level of musicianship and musicality this year was certainly outstanding. The venue established itself once more as possibly the best in the country for this kind of event—at least as good as anywhere I could think of—and the feeling of a brilliant recital again somehow outweighed the feeling of competition. Melbourne pianist Sam Keevers’s band was the only one which, to my ears, suffered in a subtle but important way from the sound balance. More of that later.
First, a peripheral concern, which subtly reflects on the awards. One does not wish to flatter the Freedmans personally so much as simply congratulate them. This is an event which manages to combine undoubted weight and importance with a nice degree of relaxation. Therefore, a word about the matter of presenter, or as it seemed this year, compere. Really, I don’t think you can do better than Dick Letts. He is genial and humorous without trying to stamp his personality on the event. He avoids gaucherie. I’ll say no more.
Sam Keevers, a great favourite of mine, opened, and he had the advantage of leading a mixed Melbourne/Sydney band which is an ongoing project. Keevers, bassist Brett Hirst, drummer Simon Barker and percussionist Javier Fredes have performed together live and have a very successful C, Red Fish Blue to their credit. Some of their material was drawn from that album. As well as glowing, poignant Keever ballads, they displayed the brilliant drum interplay that is inspired by Keevers’s love of Cuban music. On two of the latter pieces, particularly the finale, Keevers—after soloing superbly—allowed the drummers to run at length while he repeated a chorded pattern.
Here the sound was not quite right—as it certainly is on the record and in club performances. The piano was allowed to sink a little in level so that if you did not know the format you might have thought that he was trying to play a solo vainly against the drums. In fact I heard a couple of people complaining that the drummers weren’t listening to him. They weren’t supposed to be, any more than you listen to a vamp or ostinato going on behind you (you don’t need to if your time is good: you hear it virtually subliminally). They were listening to each other. I knew what was happening and it was very exciting, the percussion textures quite unique, but psychologically, knowing how others were hearing it had a dampening effect. That shouldn’t have influenced the judges, but I am reviewing these as performances.
Melbourne saxophonist Jamie Oehlers used the same drummer and bassist, and in place of Melbourne trumpeter Paul Williamson, with whom he has been working to great effect, used last year’s Freedman winner, Sydney guitarist James Muller, who joined him in a fiery opening exchange of answering and sometimes overlapping phrases, a stinging informal counterpoint, and in unisons, as well as delivering solos whose brilliance matched the leader’s. Some of the material was drawn from Oehlers’s fine disc, The Assemblers, to which Keevers contributes so beautifully. Unlike Paul Williamson, Keevers was right there in Sydney, so I was surprised that he was not pressed into service. Perhaps some problem was perceived, what with him being a contestant also.
This music uses simple, but intriguing lines, sometimes widely spaced, angular, and moving in a slower multiple of the fast, busy rhythm. It was exciting and effective, and Oehlers as usual played with a highly impressive mixture of fire, energy and finesse.
Next, no drums. The change in tone, texture and feeling when Melbourne saxophonist Julien Wilson’s trio began playing is what makes these finals invariably one of the very best concerts one is likely to attend through the year. We have heard this trio before in this very venue during last year’s Jazz Now concerts—perhaps the Freedmans’ only rival as a Sydney jazz special event. Wilson played tenor saxophone throughout, Stephen Grant piano accordion and Steve Magnussen guitars.
I think we all have some subtle and potent association with the accordion, however oblique. If only through films in which French sidewalk cafe music sets the scene. I am listening to a recording of Wilson, Magnussen, Grant at Jazz Now. Grant’s accordion draws on all that without apology, and to heighten the effect, Magnussen is playing his guitar like a mandolin, broadcasting sustained fluttering tremeloes like a ballerina on her toes. Through this lovely wafting of atmospheric colour, Wilson’s tenor murmuringly weaves.
But that is not how Magnussen plays most of the time. Leave aside the beautiful sounds he can produce through his highly individual use of his effects pedals, he can get an amazingly thick, solid, golden basic sound at quite a low volume. His time is so good that a progression of these sounds, solid and taperingly shaped like shining deepwater fish, can bring you forward to the edge of your seat. He seems to be able to make them stop in mid air, as it were, bent at antic angles. In fact the manipulations of time can remind me somewhat of the late, often overlooked trumpet master Kenny Dorham.
A couple of tunes sounded a little like both Stephen Foster and Albert Ayler. It is a very emotional area. They did not milk it, but allowed it to speak. On these Wilson used a huge, wide middle register sound. When he played with wilder passion, he stepped back from the microphone. He flooded the area with dark low sound and raucous, emotional high notes, without hurting your ears. I thought, and was not alone, that this band with its sound and subtle interactions has a special magic.
There was more of that to follow. Sydney pianist Matt McMahon gave a direct demonstration of his stated agenda, which was to record compositions of his own and of Australian musicians he was influenced by and admired. This is a sparingly tapped resource, and McMahon gave a compelling indication of its richness. I might argue that Sam Keevers is a more thoroughly original piano stylist. On the other hand, McMahon has probably adapted his style to more diverse settings, with remarkable felicity and overwhelming excellence, sometimes using electric keyboards with great inventiveness. For all the influences that seem obvious—Herbie Hancock in both his acoustic and electric modes, Bill Evans—there is something that links him to earlier stylists like Hank Jones and Tommy Flanagan.
Touch is perhaps the word. Playing a Mike Nock tune called Nata Jagal, McMahon struck the close intervals of the opening so precisely, in such perfect balance, that overtones beamed forth that were as fine as gold filaments. Afterward, I remarked to Mike Nock how beautiful his tune had sounded, and he waved that compliment off impatiently: ‘Aaahh, man, it was the way he played it.’
Similar felicities were heard on a tune of his own. After this beautiful demonstration of the watchmaker’s craft, McMahon, accompanied by Simon Barker once more, James Muller and bassist Johnno Brown, showed how sparkingly and hard he can swing, or rockingly surge, on tunes by Muller and Sean Whalen.
Most people I spoke to felt that it would be between Matt McMahon and Julien Wilson. By next morning we knew that it was Matt.