Prelude: Train
This time it has taken half the day to relax into the lounge room of the countryside: the rolling hills and white giant fleece in the sky. The undersides of the clouds have absorbed a greyish pink tincture, hinting at rain. This is relaxing too, for we are speeding towards shelter, though heading away from home. Even if I were heading for home there would be no one there I am happy to say. That is why I write in this notebook with a silver German pen in black ink while the train rocks, suspending operations when it lurches. These implements are my home. And of course many friends are gathering at Wangaratta. There is nothing you can give me. I am the man who has everything. The track runs high at this point and down there it says HORSE ADJISTMENT PASTURE. Three glossy bay horses are moving gracefully the other way, their near-run both undulant and angular, tense and flowing. Now that hollow fills and rises and becomes a hill. There is a white modernist house in Wagga Wagga that is far from new. It was built as long ago as the 1950s. Who built it? There is a second white modernist house in Wagga Wagga, built much later.
Wanga Wanga (south of Wagga Wagga)
We should leave the curious thinking that has given us a shining new Wangaratta Performing Arts Centre whose main theatre has a capacity at least 100 hundred less than that of the old Town Hall to be analysed by those who are more interested in politics (I follow politics because it is my duty as a citizen who votes rather than through any enthusiasm). Nevertheless I should say that Ron Webb the mayor, who seemed very sincere to me, insisted that this was nonsense. On the other hand Artistic Director Adrian Jackson pointed out that in the old town hall they had once sold more than six hundred tickets for James Morrison, which it seems doubtful that many would not have used, and you cannot get more than 500 into the new theatre. Long-time sound man Jeff Phillips backed him up, saying that they had, with additional seating, had 640 people in the town hall, and that there is no extra seating provision in the new space. Adrian agreed with me that the mayor was a nice fellow and as far as he knew very sincere. The mayor also invoked cost. Much has already been built within the available space that was not there before.
It is there now, so let us experience it as it is. It has some free form touches vaguely reminiscent of Federation Square, though it is silver and matt grey and towering, while Fed Square seems to have clothed itself in panels of camouflage colours that, combined with its low lines give it a kind of anti-presence, like a mirage. The Wangaratta silver is supplied by sometimes asymmetrical corrugated geometrical panels of cladding made from, I would say, a product called colourbond steel. These are offset by areas of charcoal grey (with a pinkish cast from some angles) made from, I would guess a concrete mixture, very smoothly finished, very nice to run your hand over. Many shapes project as shallow boxes beyond the median line of the building’s walls. There is a polished concrete floor inside. I like it, though some residents might find it a little too industrial yet freely geometric. The geometry is compositional, quite pleasingly so, and the building is echoed by a geometric civic headquarters across the street. A congenial eating, drinking, conversational and coffee-imbibing extension runs to outdoor tables with the bar and so on inside. Regulars like myself might wish that the space and expense had gone into more capacity in the main hall. But from the city’s point of view, these were needed, for the Centre is not just for jazz. They hope to attract conferences and to generate a more sophisticated impression for visitors. Still, if a Dave Holland appeared again and played three times, 300 people would not hear him. As it was there were many full houses this year and even with a Gold Pass it could be hard to get in.
The big theatre, capacity aside has a far more intense performance focus than the casual and much-loved old town hall; a dark focus of matt black offset by panels of deep plum. The gallery is far above and gives a cantilever effect though it is supported in part by the side walls. The sound below is excellent (where I sat anyway) though it was tested by the first performance on the Friday night by the Sydney big band The Jazzgroove Mothership Orchestra playing the compositions and arrangements of American trumpeter Charles Tolliver, who conducted and soloed, attired like the young Dizzy Gillespie in beret, shades and pin-striped suit, which amused the young musicians.
The performance began with a frenetic thundering and a repeated five-trumpet banshee-like figure way up high that reminded me surprisingly of a certain period of the Stan Kenton band. The exceptional tenor saxophonist Richard Maegraith played the first solo and it was a tour de force of angular developmental lines, fierce squalling and knotty complexes. His sound was dark and beautifully grained, gritty when he roared out, and it brought the house down. As a trumpeter these days Tolliver (only 67) has great moments and moments where his lip seems a little unfirm. His sound was always raw. More so now and there is cornet-like quality in it. The hint of bugle or cornet and the rawness combined with swing and bite and a certain angularity made him never less than interesting, often exciting.
Tolliver’s arrangements were a good showcase for the band, full of difficult, staggered cues. Modernism from another era and interestingly often at odds with his trumpet which almost belongs in a more recent avant-garde. There were some subtler touches, such as an interlude voiced for two clarinets, flute and baritone sax. The least successful piece was dedicated to the heroic perseverence of Emperor Penguins in the Antarctic. It sounded not unlike Henry Mancini and almost threatened in its second section to become The Baby Elephant Walk. I am in fact a big fan of Mancini, particularly of his underrated Peter Gunn soundtrack, but these specific Mancini sounds seemed inappropriate for the subject. On the second day there was a blues that sounded almost like an arrangement for the Count Basie orchestra by Ernie Wilkins. That was very enjoyable.
Tolliver is not the first Wangaratta guest who is very interesting to many musicians and fans but not a household name. It is not the first year there has been no BIG international guest. I enjoy those years as much as any, and this turned out to be no exception.
As John (Shakespeare’s) McBeath said in The Australian the spotlight was thrown on the brilliant array of local talent. But not for the first time by any means. Nor was there a lack of brilliant visitors.
Tolliver was followed by trumpeters Scott Tinkler and Phil Slater, guitarists Carl Dewhurst and Steve Magnusson, drummers Ken Edie and Simon Barker, bassist Phillip Rex and pianist Marc Hannaford, playing a composition by Tinkler called Folk. There were few signs of what many would call folk music. Folk referred to the players Tinkler had drawn from the Art Orchestra. They are his colleagues, his folk, and there is no doubt that these musicians plus John Rogers and others who appear with them on Melbourne’s Extreme label, were meant to play together. At a first hearing (one hopes that a recording will appear) I was so engrossed that I took no notes and did not think to wonder what was composed and what improvised. I experienced it as a series of events, yet it all had shape and inevitability. If you have heard any of the Extreme discs you will have a better idea than I can give of the textures and interactions, the incredible brightness and certainty of every statement, whether solo, duet or collective.
At one point Tinkler released a long galvanising blast that was immediately accompanied or “clothed’ by a multiphonic electric ray from Carl Dewhurst’s guitar. This was worth the price of admission. Tinkler sank the bell of his trumpet in a tub of water and produced an underwater solo. Slater and Tinkler played together and, as Tinkler said later, Slater, at first contrasting, took him on and forced him into other areas. The music of these musicians can be severe and complex, but it is supremely musical and exciting. Even those around me who did not know what to make of it declared it amazing.
In polar contrast to Tinkler and company was the collaboration of pianist Barney McCall and singer/songwriter Gian Slater that is called Sylent Running. I began to listen to this in the Anglican Cathedral and the first moments were promising. McCall played a lush series of chords and cascades that might have come from Ravel’s Daphnis & Chloe, which clouded suddenly with disorienting dissonance; but as the electronics entered I found that this – like all but one performance here – did not work for me in the reverberant room. In the theatre next day I listened again and it was a different story. These musicians, whom I shall shortly list, are of a young contemporary breed who can play jazz, pop and rock with authenticity. It was a seamless blending of these elements. Gian Slater’s lyrics have improved beyond recognition since I last heard her, and while she has a certain baby doll vocal quality, it is not affectation. That is her, and whether she is singing in wordless unisons with the ensemble or interpreting the song, she sings so amazingly in tune that the whole package is soon embraced.
The music was often minimalist, and as often cunningly intricate, and it was sweetly electro-poppy, but also at times disturbing. It had that curious youthful blending of euphoria and melancholy. The arrangements sometimes ingeniously triggered powerful choruses from spare atmospherics. The musicians are. McCall, piano and electric keyboards; bassist Chris Hale, American guitarist Nir Felder, laptop exponent Dan West and drummer Ben Vanderwal (who also accompanied the soloists in the saxophone competition).
The performance that worked for me in the cathedral was, surprise surprise, you could have knocked down with a feather, Sydney alto and soprano saxophonist Andrew Robson’s arrangements of music by Thomas Tallis, played unamplified by himself, Sandy Evans (tenor and soprano), James Greening (trombone and pocket trumpet) and bassist Steve Elphick. These also are musicians who were meant to play together. The sound of Greening’s trombone floating, billowing – rich yet transparent – in that space was one of the highlights of this Festival. I had also been in there to hear a gospel trio and even they had not worked, due to amplification. The cathedral has a good choir who don’t need amplification. No one applauds them.
When I sat down in the theatre to hear Germans-with-a-French-name Liason Tonique I said, “the war”, in defiance of anyone who might have told me I should not mention it, but said it so quietly that my neighbour on either side could not hear me let alone those on stage. Well, some would have been too scared to mention it at all! I said it because a few years ago I discovered that my ancestors on my father’s side were from Germany and felt that this gave me license to deploy pawky humour. Laia Genc is a beautiful, clear, lyrical and inventive pianist, and of course the trio (Sebastien Gramms, bass and drummer Niles Tegan) was wonderfully integrated (I am listening to a recording of them at home right now). Of course the German label ECM, with its frequent use of clear definition in pristine space was conjured. On some pieces they were joined by Melbourne saxophonist Adam Simmons, who played tenor and, once, contra bass clarinet. Some think that such clear music, such German music if you like, lacks passion. Of course it doesn’t. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard Ludwig van Beethoven or J.S.Bach. Nobody who designed the Audi TT could lack passion. This music is intense even in its clarity and precision, and I find it deeply satisfying. We thank the Goethe Institute for making these bands available to us.
I missed the Carsten Daerr Trio from Berlin but heard them a few days later at Sydney’s Sound Lounge. They were often more turbulent and fierce than Tonique, but also beautifully balanced and precise. Their arrangements and interactive improvisations made ingenious use of dynamics and sometimes created express trains of momentum and volume that ended abruptly in silence and took off in another direction. They were also personally charming and loved by young and old. Daerr is the pianist, with bassist Oliver Potratz and drummer Eric Schaefer.
Pushing myself hard to hear more this year than I had before, I completely overshot those deep, subtle Melbourne pianists Tim Stevens and Colin Hopkins. Most of us have some spiritual curiosity. We may not care whether God is called Yaweh or Allah or The Godhead or Buddha, whether there is a god at all, who was right in The Schism, etc etc. We just enjoy some facets of life so keenly and deeply and are so appalled by others that we cannot help but think sometimes about meaning. It is human. We want to be good and know we have sometimes been bad, without feeling the need to murmur piously “We all are sinners”. That is what I hear in their music: contemplation and crystalline joy. Hopkins has two albums on Rufus – Paper Hat and Still – and Stevens has a series of three. Band Misinterpretato is another I missed, but I am listening at home right now to them. Look, investigate this worthy and often brillliant label.
I heard the Linda Oh trio in the Memorial Hall and was impressed by their virtuosity – particularly that of bassist Oh and trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire – but can’t say that I enjoyed it wholeheartedly. The acoustics in here are not great, despite the rectification of curtaining. Oh’s bass was a boom without timbre and Ambrose Akinmusire’s trumpet was over-bright and harsh. They played a suite that something more than a suite, in which themes recurred or were immediately repeated, and were quoted and varied during the improvisations.
Next day I heard them in the main theatre and the warmer sound in there made all the difference in the world. One theme was played acapello by the trumpet and now I heard Ambrose in his glory. What a sound! Sound alone and the way he played the themes, some of which were boppy while some were singing statements with an African township feel, would have marked him out as exceptional; but his improvisations were highly distinctive, often brilliant. Sometimes he ran swinging fast lines that were stepped briefly in mid-air by tight half valved chokes or incredibly fast trills. He played at times close to the microphone and at others played out into the hall, and we were held. Oh’s remarkable bass lines now had timbre. The audience was drawn into a drama of alternating voices and expressive statements. This trio was the kind of surprise at which Wangaratta excels.
I heard some of the Ari Hoenig Quartet with two Americans – Ari and guitarist Gilad Hekselman – and Australians Jamie Oehlers and Sam Anning. What I heard was songful, interactive and delightful. Foolishly I rushed off before the end to hear something else, believing I could hear them again tomorrow (could not get in). Thus I missed the most talked about aspect of drummer Ari’s playing – his ability to play melody accurately on the skins, perhaps surpassing anything we have hitherto heard in this area.
I missed Bob Barnard who was apparently in magnificent form, who played with visiting British trad masters.
On the final night P. Grabowski reprised some witty, tricky and exciting pieces from the era of the Steve Vizard show, and weirdly enough, I noted a resemblance between the playing posture of Grabowsky with that of Paul Shaffer when either of these very clever men were at full stretch. The band was a superb one: Phillip Rex, bass, Jamie Oehlers, tenor saxophone, altoist Carl Mackie from Perth, trombonist Murray Jordan and drummer Niko Schauble. All were in great form. Oehlers displayed his customary fluency, control and inventiveness and also produced some moments when raw sound was all. A wall of boiling apoplexy issued from the tenor, and these were among the great moments of this festival. More than a few great moments had occurred earlier when Niko and Mike Nock duetted as they had done twenty years ago at the very first Wangaratta Festival Of Jazz.
Ish Ish from Melbourne (a welcome reunion) and The Vampires from Sydney produced glorious, happy, groovy ensembles and solos, contrasted in Ish Ish’s case by a mournful dirge that became bleak as icy wind on the tundra before exploding into a grooving, shouting ensemble. We’re running out of time now, but Pateras/Baxter/Brown and Embers gave us free music of energy and apparently artless abandon (instinct and effect were all) which, as this music so often does, first energised then deeply relaxed me. Catharsis could be the word. Came in on the end of Band of Five Names – Phil Slater and Dewhurst again with Matt McMahon – just as a cataclysmic uproar faded and Slater’s trumpet murmured over spare electronics.
But that wasn’t all. I stayed for the Tuesday and went out to Alderstone Cellars to hear my friends Julian Wilson on tenor, altoist Phil Noy, who was runner up in the saxophone comp (Jacam Manricks 3rd and Zack Hurren the winner), Sam Anning, bass and Allan Browne – the man who sounds authentic in any idiom on drums – playing music of Lennie Tristano and Lee Konitz, with some contrasting music from Ellington and Bernie McGann, and some subtly different music from a minute or so before Tristano appeared: Charlie Parker’s Milestones. They sounded beautiful playing this music together out in the bush. What, I asked Julian, are those intervals, those harmonies Konitz and Warne Marsh played? They were different on different records, yet always achieved that Tristano effect, so subtle, so cool, and lovely as eddies of air. Sometimes the saxophones sounded a bit like an accordion.
Well, they were sometimes unisons, sometimes fourths, with some thirds, sometimes the saxes were a tone apart.
Where else are you likely to hear this extraordinary range of the traditional, the modern, avant-garde and coolly esoteric? The bush, bleached and silvery in the heat, was inspiring.
Now at that time when it is full daylight but a faint morning mist still hangs in the middle distance and birds are still making a morning twitter and dew is still on the grass I sat in that tiny octagonal retreat like a rotunda amongst rows of huge roses at the Melbourne approach to Wangaratta, McDonalds behind me, KFC across the way, I face the highway which is close but pleasantly murmuring. The Wangaratta Motor Inn is over there, my brief home. Twenty years ago I was struck by the roses of Wangaratta, the hollyhocks, the biggest geraniums I have ever seen, and I wrote about this tiny but outlandishly adventurous festival for The Sydney Morning Herald and the Melbourne Age. Although it has grown much bigger, it has by some miracle (you might call him Adrian Jackson), it has kept the same spirit. I think we can also thank Patti Bullus, chair, and all the past and present members of the committee who were very, very smart to take Adrian’s advice. One more thing. There were security guys in the new arts complex who were approximately 100 times more friendly and helpful than those you encounter in some other cities.